


Flattery

by orphan_account



Series: O phantoms! [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Anal Sex, Child Abuse, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Humanstuck, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Racist Slurs, Rape Fantasy, Sadism, Sadstuck, Sex Toys, Shotgunning, Stalking, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Love, Victim Blaming, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:03:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(from a kinkmeme prompt)</p><p>After gaining a modest level of internet notoriety, Dave finds himself garnering an unhealthy level of attention from an anonymous fan. With the situation escalating, however, he begins questioning whether or not he thinks this may be a bad thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> taken from:  
> http://homesmut.livejournal.com/17313.html?thread=36109729#t36109729

anonchum (--) began pestering turntechGodhead (TG)

\--: Those pants look great on you.

You snort down at your phone in amusement when you get the message. Tossing your bangs out of your face, you tap out a response and take a sip from your drink. 

TG: yeah nice cold reading  
TG: what an amazing coincidence i am wearing pants  
TG: one in three shot i wasnt in my boxers or naked and you nailed it  
TG: congrats dude

Your phone buzzes before you can even tuck it back in your pocket and you quirk an eyebrow. 

\--: Strutting around Jamail in your underwear or less would be a little indecent, though, don't you agree?  
\--: Not that I mind indecent when it's you  
\--: Black denim's a good look for you.  
\--: That cut makes your ass look amazing.

As the texts roll in, your eyebrows slowly creep closer and closer towards your hairline. The sort of lurching, swooping sensation you've become familiar with over the past few months settles in your gut. You still haven't decided whether it's fear or titilation. You take another drag off the straw between your teeth to water it down a bit. 

\--: What are you drinking there?

The shiver that slides down your spine doesn't make itself known further than the slight tremor of your thumb as you hesitate to respond. In all other regards, your pokerface remains resolutely intact. You sip your drink again, texting an answer. 

TG: plain old iced latte  
TG: sorry if that ruins your fantasy or whatever dude  
TG: you were probably angling for some girly candy drink huh  
TG: caramel mocchiatto or some shit  
TG: gotta watch my figure yknow  
TG: that shitll go straight to my hips 

The clacking and scrapes of decks on cement rattle around you, mingling with the hubbub of a gathered crowd as you churn out your response. Your phone vibrates in your hand and you cut your rambling short. 

\--: Your hips look fine from here.

You lift your head, scanning the faces around you. It's a beautiful day and half of Houston is out in full force. All around you are people on cell phones – gaggles of girls your age, men in suits, beleaguered soccer moms half-ignoring their screaming children, boys posturing over by the halfpipe. When you look back down at your phone, your stomach does a tiny flip over the texts it's spat out. 

\--: They'd look better under my hands.  
\--: Oh, and don't worry.  
\--: The only thing I've fantasized about you drinking is my cum.  
\--: So I'm not disappointed.  
\--: I don't think you could ever disappoint me.  
\--: By the way, I didn't know you liked photography.  
\--: Maybe I could send you some pictures you might like.

You scoff at your phone, that anxious blend of nerves and excitement rising in you. You lick your lips as you tap out a response. 

TG: if theyre anything like those emails you sent me shit yeah man  
TG: i need more evidence for that docket me and chris hansen are compiling on you

You search the crowd again, trying to pick out anyone staring at you, anyone visibly agitated. A woman walks past you, her fat toddler balanced against her hip, squabbling into her phone. In the shade of a nearby tree, a boy maybe two years your senior is hitting on a freckled blonde girl, her friends texting each other and looking bored. Your phone buzzes in your palm.

\--: You won't find me.  
\--: I see you trying, but you wont.  
\--: That was real sexy, by the way.  
\--: with lips like yours I bet you'd give great head.

The subsequent plunge your stomach makes is accompanied this time by a pleasant stir in lower regions. You shift from one foot to the other and back, the only tell you might be affected by these texts. Casually taking another drink off your coffee, you keep your face turned down, scanning the crowd from behind the safety of your shades. Occasionally you flit your gaze back to the screen and the growing crawl of texts. 

\--: I'd love to see those cute, pink lips wrapped around my cock.  
\--: Let you suck me off until I'm hard enough to flip you over and pound your tight, virgin ass.  
\--: You'd like that, wouldn't you?  
\--: Getting your hot little hole ploughed by my cock.

The slurping rattle of your straw wrenches your attention from your phone. You glance at your empty cup, shaking it lightly before crushing it in your hand. You head towards the nearest garbage can, texting while you walk. 

TG: not as much as id like seeing you bust a nut in a public park  
TG: seriously dude theres kids around and shit  
TG: although i guess with your whole creepy uncle trip thats a bonus isnt it

Depositing your trash, you do another sweep of the skate park. Unable to pick anyone out, you give up, figuring you might as well head home. There's no way you'll be able to concentrate on getting any decent shots now. Not when you're distracted by the idea that you're providing some mouthbreather with eye candy. Besides, the situation in your pants has grown a little dire after that last chunk of texts, and you've still got an hour-plus bus ride back to the apartment.  
You shove your phone into your front pocket and attempt your best saunter towards Sabine. You're a little too straight-legged, as well as inwardly cursing your penchant for skinny jeans, but you figure most of the people milling mindlessly around you won't notice. The crowd thickens a little as you close in on the bus stop and you weave your way through bodies until you're at the curb. You dig your phone back out, pull up the public transit app, punch in the stop number you know by heart. 

As you wait for the next arrival to load, you feel first a light brush, then a full palm settle on your ass. Fingers curl, squeeze, dip briefly between your thighs, making you jump. You whip around, startled, but the moment was so quick the owner of the offending hand has disappeared into the crowd. Lips parted slightly and breath loud in your ears, you still search the group in vain, barely aware of the buzz your phone emits in your hand  
You lick your lips again, breath shaking, rattled. The conflict between the fear instinct that was triggered by the touch, and the spike of lust it sent to your crotch confuses you. Turning back around, you check your phone automatically. 

\--: Catch you later, kid.

For the first time in three months, you're starting to have second thoughts about playing this game.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> run-on sentences and abusive/racist Bro ahead!

To be precise, this whole situation is a “game” only because you decided it was. About a year ago, _Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff_ enjoyed a bizarre spike in popularity. The only explanation you could muster was that stupid people apparently liked reading way too deeply into the worthless shit you vomited out in fits of boredom. Not that you were complaining. After all, it taught you the lesson that, if enough people paid attention to the stupid shit you had to say, _more_ people would want to hear it.

It was great. You set up a YouTube account, used your piece of shit webcam to film yourself rambling about the most _useless_ garbage you could think of, and the internet ate it the fuck up. Your videos got circulated, people made GIFs of you, dedicated fanblogs to you, tried to get in fights with you on your channel, showered you in praise and adulation. You loved it. You loved hearing yourself talk and so, apparently, did other people. You loved the attention, the fact that a skinny, big-nosed kid like you could slap on a pair of shades and a snarky attitude and people would wet themselves over the dumbass shit that flew out of your mouth.  
Among your fans there were, of course, a handful of the more...rabid. A fair mix of girls and boys, mostly around your age, fell over themselves to tell you how cool you were, how smart you were, how cute you were. You maintained a precarious balance between aloof and gracious, letting people know when they needed to calm their tits, but never really being mean enough to alienate anyone. Well, not anyone who didn't deserve it. Your hater takedowns were notoriously some of your best shit. 

A few months ago, however, one follower distinguished himself in terms of, if nothing else, persistence. It started out with the usual comments on your videos - “you're so funny”; “that's exactly what I think”; “I really like you.” When it started being every single video, when the comments started moving into “I'd like to meet you” and “we should hang out” territory, you told the guy to cool it.  
If anything, that made him worse. He started getting friendlier with you, started sending messages to your public e-mail, insisting you get to know him better. You wrote him off as some lovesick kid your age and blocked him.  
That was when the dummy accounts and the lewd messages started. You got comments on your videos telling you to whip your dick out, asking if you were a virgin, asking if you liked getting assfucked. At first, you honestly thought it was Bro trolling you. Two Strifes and an ass whupping for sass later, you decided it wasn't his style. You assumed you were being periodically raided, maybe catching flak from some /b/-tards with a grudge. You clowned them in the comments and shrugged it off as a side-effect of internet popularity. 

Last month you realised it was the same guy when he got a hold of your private e-mail. You're still baffled as to how he did. You'd made the account exclusively to talk to John, Jade, and Rose. They were the only ones would should have known it, and security on your network was supposed to be, as Bro put it, “tighter than a prom queen's asshole.” You'd asked, after all. Bro had narrowed his eyes and asked, “why, y'thinkin'a joinin' NAMBLA?” He'd smacked you upside the head when you'd told him, actually, you were interested in joining the family business, and tried stalking off to your room.  
Although he merely asked you out in the first, the e-mails from this guy have been rapidly getting more perverse. Sometimes he sends you links or video files of twink porn (always featuring blondes). Other messages pry into personal information – he's hung up on the idea that you're a virgin, but it doesn't stop him asking what type of guys you like, if you've ever tasted your own cum, if you've tried fingering yourself before. He mails you long, detailed fantasies about you. Any variety of these messages can stack up to three or four in a day. 

You...haven't really discouraged it. Sure, you always respond sarcastically, and sometimes you don't even bother looking at the shit he sends you. But you haven't gone out of your way to stop it. Honestly, you sort of like the attention. Maybe if you had any kind of real world social life you'd find it more of a problem. But you're homeschooled, none of the neighbour kids are allowed to talk to you thanks to Bro's freaky ass, and the closest thing you have to a boyfriend is your hand and Egbert being oblivious as fuck on pesterchum. There really could be worse things than some perv on the internet fapping over the idea of your nubile young body.  
In a weird way, it's sort of flattering. It's definitely a nice contrast, knowing at least _someone_ out there wants to fuck your brains out, when the alternative is John “Derp, I'm Either So Oblivious To Innuendo It Could Qualify As Brain Damage Or Else I'm Being Maliciously Obtuse” Egbert. Also, you can't really deny some of the shit he's written, some of the videos he's sent you have provided some really great masturbation material. 

The warning bells probably should have started going off when he first texted you last week. Again, no idea how he got your contact info. Now you get texts telling you you're being coy, playing hard to get. He talks about the two of you getting together like it's an inevitability, describes what he's going to do to you when you do hook up. Two nights ago he went into detail about how he planned to take your virginity; how he would open you up with his fingers and his tongue; make you cum with ass play alone; slide into you while you were still reeling and your stomach was splattered with jizz; wrap your ankles around his neck and pound you until you were moaning like a whore; pull out just in time to blow his load over your balls and into the gaping mess he'd made of your hole. You rubbed one off while he elaborated and afterwards you were pretty sure he knew. 

Up to this point, it's all been a game, as far as you're concerned. You certainly haven't been taking it seriously. He's just some creeper from the internet and you've always just assumed that if you really need to make him fuck off, you know how to make him fuck off. You didn't think he'd actually be in Houston. You didn't think he'd actually go out of his way to find you. But, although a probably far more sensible (albeit smaller) part of your brain recognises this as potentially being a seriously dangerous situation you've landed yourself in, you find yourself strangely excited by the whole thing.  
All during the ride home, you play out scenarios where this guy finds out where you live, catches you on the way to the store or breaks into the apartment. Each time you find yourself equally terrified and aroused by the prospect, and it deeply confuses you. 

___ 

  
Bro's still sacked out when you get back to the apartment. You breathe a sigh of relief, unslinging your camera from around your neck. You leave it on the kitchen counter temporarily, creeping up to the futon and snatching his wallet. You replace the change from the twenty you stole when you left this morning and hope he assumes he forgot breaking it. This trick works maybe 25% of the time. The other 3 out of 4 times you get your ass beat for being a fucking sneak, but it's worth it to get the hell out of the apartment. 

You grab your camera and head towards your room. Your stomach growls mutinously, but you already know the answer, so you ignore it as you slip into your room, locking the door behind you. Hitting the power on your computer, you set your camera gently next to your mixing gear before tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it in the general direction of your bed. As the fans of your computer whir to life, you stand in front of your desk with a casual slouch, unbuttoning your pants and easing down your fly. You scratch at the thin trail of hair below your navel as you slump into your chair.  
Your home life being what it is, you don't exactly have to stash the porn on your computer. Sure, Bro teases you about it sometimes, but your tastes are tame as fuck compared to some of the fetish shit you have the misfortune of knowing he's into. You pull up your main desktop folder, letting your free hand slide down your belly, over your boxers. Palming your aching balls through the thin fabric, you navigate your collection. 

The videos you've acquired from your creepy internet buddy are cordoned off in their own folder. You skip over it to your largest, and by far favourite category. Although Mr. Cyberstalker definitely nailed it with the twink preference, he missed the most important detail. Shifting to slide your jeans and boxers down your thighs, you sigh as you lean back in your seat and curl your fingers around your mostly flaccid gear.  
In the video you've pulled up, two young Asian men kiss sloppily. Of the pair, the boy with the longer, messier hair, light brown skin, goofy smile arrests your attention. Neglected for the entire incident at the park, as well as the very awkward bus ride home, your cock springs to life in your hand. You match the pace of the darker-skinned boy as his fingers curl around his partner's half-hard dick, pump yourself in time with his strokes. Biting your lower lip, you watch through slitted eyes as the fairer-skinned man's head tilts back, the other boy leaning in to suck and bite at his neck. You touch your own throat, biting down a groan, squeezing yourself and trailing your fingers along your collarbone, down your chest. You brush over your nipple, thrusting your hips into your strokes just a little as you tease, roll, pinch the little nub into full stiffness. Moving to the other, you imagine lips playing with the sensitive flesh, fingers longer and more slender than your own curled and stroking around your flushed prick.  
A groan calls your attention back to the monitor. Dark  & Long-Haired is pumping two fingers in and out of his partner, moving in sync with his hand, with your hand. He moves down the body he's tending, his stiff dick bobbing a little between his legs. When his mouth replaces his hand, you drag a long, tight pull up your length. Squeezing the head of your cock, smoothing your thumb over your weeping slit, you watch lips sliding tightly over slick skin on your screen. Resuming your own ministrations, you run your other hand down the length of your torso to push between your legs. You tilt your hips forward just slightly, fondling your balls as you picture John in the place of the man on-screen, John with his lips wrapped around an eager cock, John bobbing his head on _your_ eager cock. You groan. 

Just as your other hand begins slowly tracing the length of your taint, a loud slap against your door makes you jump in shock. You gasp for breath as it's followed-up with two more open-handed knocks.  
“Yo, quit jerkin' it long enough t'tell me what kinda pizza y'want.” Bro's voice is muffled through the door and still a little heavy with sleep. You grit your teeth and throw a glare in the direction of your door, your racing heart still thudding against your ribs.  
”You know what fuckin' kind, Bro,” you snap. Just barely you make out his self-satisfied chuckle.  
”Anchovies 'n' artichoke hearts then, right,” he announces. “Have fun, kiddo.” 

You hear his footsteps move away from your door and sneer before letting out a frustrated sigh. Glancing back to the screen, your John stand-in has flipped his co-star onto his hands and knees and begun a steady, rough beat into his ass. You watch the flex of his lower back muscles, the snap of his hips. Licking your lips, you give yourself a squeeze, bringing the half-hard weight in your palm back to attention with a few tugs.  
Last year, right around when John hit fourteen, he shot up like a weed. The baby fat he'd begun to accept might never quite go away evaporated seemingly overnight. The result, currently, was long, gangly limbs, a slim torso, and you suspect an inch or three on you. Yet, judging by the way his shoulders had broadened and his arms had started shaping up, you have a feeling that if John took up...any kind of sport, really, he'd fill out pretty similarly to the guy you were currently watching fuck his companion senseless.  
It's not a difficult leap, then, admiring the roll of this man's abs, his powerful, deliberate thrusts, to imagine John fucking _you_ senseless. You pop the index finger of your free hand into your mouth, picking back up a slightly faster pace with the other. Thoroughly wetting the digit, you release it, hand darting down between your thighs with much less patience than before. If Bro's up, the chances of him fucking with you rise in direct correlation with the time elapsed since his return to consciousness. You know from experience that if you don't finish quickly, it'll be blue balls for the rest of the evening, and as _hilarious_ as Bro seems to find that, you've already had enough frustration today. 

You find yourself teasing your entrance with one finger just as your train of thought brings you back to this afternoon. A loud groan and a steady slap of skin spills from your speakers and you're suddenly thinking of the feel of a stranger groping your ass. You try to force yourself to think of John groping your ass, of John's index finger pushing into you, of John's swift, tight strokes along your shaft. Instead, you're remembering the sinking sensation of knowing you're being watched.  
You recall the texts you got, the mental image of some anonymous stranger fucking your face, cumming down your throat. You pump your single finger in and out of your body, in time with your quick, short jerks, as you layer on your own fantasies from the trip home. You imagine hands grabbing you from behind, covering your mouth, forcing you against a wall and wrenching your pants down. You imagine the thick weight of a bare erection rubbing against your asscheeks, resting up against your lower back, busy fingers pushing into your cleft, forcing themselves roughly into your body, and before you can play out the rest a groan is stuttering past your lips. The muscles around your finger pulse and your hips buck and jizz is spilling over your knuckles, warm and thick. You bite your lower lip hard, scraping a raw moan as you ride out your orgasm. 

When you slump back into your chair, you keep your head tilted back, staring at the ceiling. The sounds of the porn still in progress pour from your speakers and you feel your cum cooling on your fist and where it landed on your belly. With a heavy breath, you sit up straight, groping for the desk drawer you keep your Kleenex in. You close the video and occupy yourself with cleaning up, hitching your pants up and tucking yourself back in, grabbing your shirt from where it made friends with your floor. You stretch and pop your spine and do your damnedest to not think about the fact that you just got off to a rape fantasy. 

Ravenous, you let yourself out of your room and wander out into the living room. Bro's on his futon, legs kicked up on the coffee table, half-assedly watching _CSI: Miami._  
”When's the pizza get here?” you mumble. Bro looks at you, shrugs, looks back at the TV. He shifts and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, tossing it on the table. Your stomach sinks.  
“Figger y'already ate, so I just ordered for myself.”  


You stare at the leather wallet silently, bunching your fists in rage. Setting your jaw, you turn on your heel, ignoring the rumbling in your stomach and muttering a bitter, “Fuck you, man.”  
You know it's baiting him. But you also know this is Bro looking for a fight, and when he's looking for a fight, he usually gets one. 

“Fuck me?” you hear him rise behind you. You walk a little faster. “Fuck me? Fuck you! No, hey!”  
He grabs your arm, wrenching you around. You keep your eyes glued to the floor as he leans down into your face. 

“Y'don't fuckin' walk away from me when I'm talkin' t'you!” He shakes you by the arm and you don't fight it. “Lookit me!” Sometimes you wonder if the two of you are even related. Looking up at him, you see his square jaw, defined chin, aquiline nose that would be straight, but for the kinks where it's been broken twice. Your face is round, soft. You've got what Bro always called a “nigger nose” - broad, round, big. You're scrawny and barely over five and a half feet, even at 15. Bro towers over you, 6'3” of solid muscle, hungover and pissed. He shakes you again, making your shades slip down the bridge of your nose. 

“Y'think y'getta steal from me and mouth off about it? Y'think y'getta go behind _my_ back and take _my_ money, and then get fuckin' smart with me about the consequences?”  
”Bro, it was six fuckin' dollars!”  
He slaps you across the mouth before jamming a finger in your face.  
”This ain't the first fuckin' time y'pulled this shit, so don't even be tryin' t'act like it is!”  
”Bro, I'm not-” you snarl, only to be cut off by another smack.  
”Shut your fuckin' mouth and listen for once in your goddamn life, y'little shit!” You bite your glower lip and glare up at him, tasting blood where your teeth have cut the inside of your mouth. “How many fuckin' times I gotta tell ya t'stay the _fuck_ outta my shit, huh? I know I sure as shit didn't raise no goddamn thief, so what I gotta do t'get it through your dumb fuckin' head? What I gotta do t'make you learn?” 

”Maybe if you actually kept food in the fuckin' house I wouldn't have to steal t'fuckin' eat!”  
You see Bro's eyes go wide behind his shades. You know you've just fucked yourself. You don't think this hole can go much deeper, so you figure you might as well keep digging.  
”Maybe if you actually acted like a fuckin' adult, I wouldn't have to go halfway across the _goddamn_ city to hang out with people who didn't know what a fuckin' freak y'are! Maybe if-” 

Bro really puts his weight into the slap that cuts you off. Your glasses go flying and you stagger into the wall, pretty sure it's the only reason you remain standing. He grabs a fistful of your hair and slams you against it again. Your head bounces a little and you groan, barely staying on your feet. Bro's hand closes back around your upper arm and he drags you the rest of the way to your bedroom. Shoving the door open, he pushes you in the general direction of your bed before following into the room. Stumbling over your feet, you collapse when your shins meet the edge of your bed. The world spins and swims around you. Vaguely, you hear Bro moving angrily about the room, but it's not until he's leaning over you that you understand. 

“All this,” he shoves a handful of power cables, all formerly hooked up to your various electronics, in your face. “Everythin' in here that _I_ bought with the money _I_ earned as a fuckin' adult – it belongs to me now! You're gonna stay in here, under _my_ goddamn roof, until y'learn t'show some _goddamn_ gratitude, and if I catch y'tryin' t'sneak out that fuckin' window, y'better bet I'm gonna whup your skinny ass so hard y'won't be able t'sit down for a week!” 

He stalks back across your room, grabbing your camera almost as an afterthought and slamming the door behind him. You hear the click of the outside lock and press your palm to your forehead with a groan of pain. Your stomach has gone into full tantrum mode, churning and grumbling angrily. As you roll onto your side, your pants twist uncomfortably around your scrawny legs. With a disgruntled noise you undo your fly and shuck them off, deciding you might as well go to bed early since you have fuck all else to do. The light clunk they make when they hit the floor startles you. You sit bolt upright when you realise the source and eagerly fish through your pockets.  
Breathing a sigh of relief, you pull your iPhone from your front pants pocket. You're shocked Bro forgot it as well. Paranoia suddenly grips you and you furtively glance around, acutely aware of the fact that he might be monitoring you. You shove your phone under your pillow and flop back down on your bed. You feel a little nauseous and your empty stomach is still pitching a fit, so you figure you might as well sleep after all.


	3. Chapter 3

It's still dark when you wake up with a headache. A cool breeze is what rouses you, and for a while you simply lay in bed listening to the sirens and traffic stories below your room. Eventually you decide the pain has become a little too pounding to ignore. With a groan, you haul yourself out of bed, stagger across your room barely awake.

The hallway is as dark as the rest of the apartment. The only sound that reaches your ears as you make your way to the kitchen is the soft hum of Bro's server tower. It's Friday, so you know he'll be out most of the night. Padding into the front room, you pause when your bare feet find the point where the carpet breaks to cold linoleum. You grope for the light switch, flinching in the abrupt shift to glaring fluorescents. The booby-traps are in their usual places. Dodging them is second nature to you, even half conscious, and you brush them off easily as you root around for a clean glass. The microwave displays a solid 3:24 and you scratch your lower back as you reach for one of the higher cupboards.  
The tap water has to run for at least thirty seconds before it's even close to palatable. You hold two fingers under the stream, testing the temperature as your eyes droop sleepily. The first glassful is drained in almost one shot. You refill your glass and switch off the lights on the way out of the kitchen. You make a pit stop at the bathroom, piss in the dark. Not until you're standing in your bedroom doorway does your sleep-addled brain register something amiss. 

Another cool breeze washes over your bare legs, carrying the usual Friday night sounds, and you don't remember opening your window. You do, however, remember Bro locking you in your room. He wouldn't recant on punishing you so quickly. You know this, but you flick on your bedroom light quickly, just to make sure. The sight of your smashed padlock confirms it as your breath shudders to a halt in the back of your throat.  
You whip around, staring wide-eyed into the rest of your darkened apartment. For a long moment you're frozen, panting breaths loud in your ears and heart thudding against your chest. Your eyes scan the darkness, but you are completely incapable of willing yourself to move. The only thing that jars you out of stillness is the sound of a message alert from your phone, muffled by your pillow. You shoot a terrified glance its direction. The sound of someone at the front door makes you jump and gasp.  
There's a thump, a rattle of the doorknob, a muffled voice. You shudder, a deer caught in headlights. Time slows to a crawl as you hear a scrabble, a click, see the growing sliver of light as your front door opens. A silhouette stands illuminated by the complex's hall light. It takes a long, terrifying moment to realise it's actually two people, and not something massive. 

“Why th'fuck's the door unlocked?” Bro's voice rings through the apartment. You exhale a shaky breath. The lights come on in the front room and you see him leaning in the doorway. He's got a dark-haired boy, maybe twenty at best, hanging off his arm, and his hand halfway down the back of the kid's jeans. Their body language is a dead give away that they're both hammered. When Bro sees you rooted in place just outside your room, however, he pushes off the wall, eases the other guy away from his neck.  
“Th'fuck are you doin' out?” he demands. His pick-up follows his gaze to you, sleepily looks back at him.  
“You di'nt say y'had a kid,” he slurs, rebuffed by a brusque, “I don't.  
“I gotta kid brother's 'bout t'get his ass beat if he don't start talkin',” you can feel him staring at you through his shades and you swallow hard.  
“I think someone broke into the apartment,” you manage to blurt. Bro stiffens, draws his brows down into an angry scowl. He says something in the brunette's ear, making the other man grin and pull away. You watch in trepidation as this other guy moves over in the direction of the futon, as Bro slaps his ass in passing, then focuses his attention squarely back on you. He stalks across the front room, down the hallway, doesn't stop until he's inches from you and glowering down. 

“You've come up with some shit fuckin' excuses in your life,” he growls, his voice low and private, laced with the reek of whiskey. “Y'really wanna lie t'my face on top'a all th'trouble y'already in?”  
“I'm not!” you gasp. “Bro, look, there's no way I could'a broke this lock. Not like this! It would'a just ripped off the wall if I broke outta my room.”  
Bro narrows his eyes at you for a moment, then pushes you aside. He shoves you into your room as he leans in to examine the metal scoring where a padlock used to be.  
“Okay,” Bro says, exhaling slow. “What'd they take?”  
“I dunno,” you answer honestly. “Nothin', I think.”  
Bro squints at you scrutinisingly, again. “Then what th'fuck'd they break in for?”  
“I dunno,” you shudder. You really don't, not for certain, but you have a suspicion and a pretty good guess on who it was. Not that you'd even _think_ of telling Bro. He studies your face suspiciously, trying to catch you lying, before breaking eye contact.  
“Awright, get'cher ass t'bed then,” he grumbles, turning away. “An' stay th'fuck in your room if y'know what's good for ya.”  
You swallow shakily, risking a little smartassing to dissuade any further suspicion. “If you guys're gonna fuck, can I at least have my iPod back?”  
He spins you around and lightly smacks the back of your shoulder to get you moving. “Don't push your luck, shithead.” 

The door shuts behind you and you stand stock still in the middle of your room, listening to the retreat of his footsteps down the hall. Not until you hear voices in the front room do you dare move. You hurry to close your window, sliding it down with a snap, before turning to your bed. The mattress sinks under your weight as you crawl quickly across it, plunging your hands under your pillow. When you unlock your phone, you're surprised to see a lack of texts. You do, however, have new e-mail. Sitting back on your heels, you pull it up, starkly aware of your shallow breath and the slightly thrilling buzz of tension that's been subtly running through you since you found the broken lock. There's only one new item sitting in your inbox, almost innocently, an all-caps subject line reading, “SO CUTE.” The timestamp on it is 3:36am, barely ten minutes after you got out of bed. You don't recognise the name of the sender.  
With a deep breath and a shaking finger, you open it. There's no text in the body of the message, but there is a JPEG attachment. Every nerve in your body tenses in anticipation and your blood roars in your ears as you bring it up to view. You hand flies to your mouth to stifle the gasp that tries to escape when it loads. 

It's a picture of you sleeping. Just a simple, benign picture of you fast asleep. Your hair is in your eyes, your lips are lightly parted, the blanket's slipped off just enough to reveal the very same shirt you are currently wearing. You get the message loud and clear, the shudder that runs through you landing right in your lap.  
As little as half an hour ago, a complete stranger was standing over you, watching you, photographing you. It makes you feel powerless, and vulnerable, and harder than you've ever been in your life. You wonder what the fuck's wrong with you, boxers tented as you think about what could have happened. He could have jerked off over you, jizzed in your hair, on your face. He could have raped you, woken you up with a hand over your mouth, your arms pinned behind your back. He could have kidnapped you, taken you somewhere secret, given himself the time to do every raunchy thing he's said he wants to do to you. 

The grunts and moans of Bro and his latest conquest bleed through the walls and you bite your lip. Eyes fixed on the image of yourself, unconscious and vulnerable, you fish your straining erection out of your boxers. You flop onto your back with a groan, tugging hard, almost painfully at your swollen flesh. The sounds of sex stream into your room and you fist your hard-on to thoughts of unseen hands grabbing, holding you down, some faceless stranger pounding you as hard as you can hear Bro giving it to his new boy toy. Your phone is abandoned on the bed beside you in favour of freeing your other hand to snake underneath your hips.  
When you cum, it's with two fingers desperately pumping in and out of your body, your stuttered groan drowned out by the much louder moans of some fucking bar bunny in the next room. You can't even really be assed to clean up properly, wiping your hand off on the sheet next to you. You pass out with your flaccid dick hanging out of your boxers and spend the rest of the night in a dreamless sleep. 

___ 

Bro gives back your electronics privileges the next day. You're pretty sure it has something to do with this morning. When you woke up, you found a box of doughnuts from down the street in the kitchen, and proceeded to scarf half of them while telling Mr. Twenty-Something about the mind-blowing tits on the chick Bro brought home last weekend. Not even five minutes after the guy stormed out in a huff, Bro had shuffled into the kitchen clad only in his boxers, picking flakes of dried semen out of his treasure trail and grumbling, “God, I thought he'd never fuckin' leave.”  
He'd wolfed down the other half of the box, then chucked the bundle of power cables at your head. The “Just...stay in your room,” that accompanied them informed you he'd be shooting in the living room all day, so you'd trundled off to the bathroom, making your own plans. 

The new video idea you'd been fomenting was shot the instant you saw your face in the mirror. You weren't exactly shooting for the sympathy vote here. Prodding your swollen, bruised cheek, you decided you weren't really into rocking the “abused girlfriend” look for your adoring internet masses. Especially not when you knew your three closest friends swung by your channel every now and then. 

Pretty unsurprisingly, you spend most of the day talking to Egbert. With the end of the school year a little over a month away for him, he's riled himself up about this idea of getting you, Rose, and Jade to visit him over the break. It sounds...really nice – getting out of Bro's hair for three months, eating home-cooked meals every night, tearing it up with your best bro. But you have to be realistic and not let John set himself up for disappointment. You end up breaking it to him that, even if you could somehow afford a bus or a plane ticket to Washington, you can't go anywhere without ID. Egbert's a stubborn kid though, and you can practically see him scrunching up his face in thought during the pause before, 

GT: we'll figure something out.

You honest to god laugh at that. His determination is endearing, even when it's self-serving. You jokingly tell him you're pretty sure the only way it's happening is if his dad drives down to Texas, and you get the feeling he's seriously considering it. 

Things are suspiciously quiet on the creeper front. There's no follow-up e-mail all day, nor do you get any graphic texts interrupting your conversation with John. Just before 6, the shower comes on, the signal Bro's done shooting and getting ready to go out. An anxious feeling settles in your gut – Bro doesn't know anything about last night and now he's about to leave you alone for another eight or so hours. You'll be fine though. You chide yourself for worrying and squash the feeling down. Bro's been leaving you home on the weekends for as long as you can remember and the worst that's ever happened was the time you were nine and tried to drown Cal in the shower for staring. You and the puppet made up in time, Bro didn't whup you _that_ bad for it, and you've been fine being left on your own ever since. You're simply not going to stress out wondering how someone got into the apartment. In fact, the idea of this guy coming back is kind of exciting. You think maybe you'll stay up, maybe you'll confront him, maybe he'll jump you and you'll go down without a fight. You think about hands pinning you to your bed, and about spreading your legs to let it happen, and have to bail on your chat with John for about fifteen minutes to jerk off, your moans as you finger yourself lost under the sound of the shower outside your room. 

At 8 Bro leaves and you decide the wobbly feeling in your stomach is hunger and nothing else. You heat up what's left of the Chinese out on the kitchen counter, wolfing down lo mein as you slouch on the futon and idly channel surf. By the time the food's gone, nothing has piqued your interest, so you switch on Bro's 360. You kill a couple hours on a bad CoD knock-off that Bro picked up god know's where, but by 10 the novelty of wall glitches and antagonising aggro nerds wears a little thin. It is, however, a Saturday night, and John is two hours behind you, so when you head back to your room, you discover he and Harley have been blowing up your pesterchum. After much chastising and haranguing on their part (while you, of course, play hard to get), they talk you into streaming a couple movies with them. Egbert grabs first pick and starts the night out with _2012._ It doesn't take much longer than twenty minutes before you're savagely mocking it, Jade's cracking up, and John's good-naturedly justifying his penchant for bad action movies with the quality of explosions, building collapses, and CG walls of water.  
By 3, you can tell Egbert's begun to fade from his diminishing responses. After shooing him offline with taunts of him needing his beauty sleep, you shoot the shit with Jade for another forty-five minutes before your relatively early morning catches up with you as well. Begging off the conversation, you wish a mildly disgruntled Harley good night and start getting ready for bed. 

The apartment is dark and silent as you pad to the bathroom in nothing but your boxers. A lack of Bro by 4am is a sure sign he's out for the night. He'll probably come rolling back in sometime mid-morning, either groggy from waking up with a hangover, or crashing off whatever he was going all night on. In whichever case, it means your Sundays are pretty routinely spent laying low and doing your best to not aggravate your brother.  
In the bathroom you piss, gargle mouthwash, and leave the light on so you can see down the hall if you get up later. Making your way back to your room, it strikes you that if anything were going to happen tonight, it already would have. You don't really know what to make of the disappointment that's threaded into the relief of anxious tension you feel over the realisation. You switch out your light with a sigh and hesitate, standing at the edge of your bed. On a last minute impulse, you slip your boxers off, climbing naked under your covers and rolling over to face the wall. Satisfied that you are just the right amount of exposed, you let yourself doze off with that same, strange nervous anticipation in your stomach, ears pricking up as even the smallest of apartment sounds.


	4. Chapter 4

Sunday morning you're woken by the sound of your phone's message alert. You groan, rolling onto your back. Your throat is parched, your bladder is aching, and your phone chimes hatefully at you again. Grumbling and cursing Egbert for his freakish morning habits (seriously, what sort of sick person willingly wakes up before 11am? Certainly not you, that's for sure), you turn over.  
When you turn your phone on and open pesterchum, however, you perk up right away. Instead of the wall of blue text you were expecting, you see a scroll of black and the familiar absence of a chumhandle. You sit up, shifting around so your back is slouched against your wall. Your blanket pools around your bare hips as you scroll to the top of the still-incoming messages.

anonChum (–) began pestering turntechGodhead(TG)

\--: Did you like the pictures?  
\--: I thought they were cute.  
\--: Especially the first one.  
\--: You look like a little angel when you sleep, David.  
\--: I bet your hair is real soft, isn't it?  
\--: I suppose I'll find out soon enough, won't I?

You bite your lower lip, taking a deep breath before you answer. 

TG: you cut that shit real close dude  
TG: my bro almost caught you yknow  
TG: trust me you dont want that to happen 

In the pause that follows you notice the new e-mail notification that's been staring at you and figure that's what this guy meant by “pictures.” Just as you go to open it, you get a response. 

\--: Are you talking about that tall, blonde man I've seen around your building?  
\--: The one with those ridiculous sunglasses?  
TG: he dont knock the shades man  
TG: the shades are bomb  
\--: I didn't realise the two of you were related.  
\--: You're much more attractive.  
\--: But I'm not too concerned with him. 

Heat touches your cheeks and stirs your stomach a little over the compliment. You've never thought you were better than Bro at anything. You've _definitely_ never thought you were better looking. He's tall and handsome and gets all the ass and pussy he wants. You're just some short, scrawny kid with no friends and your hand to keep you company. You fire off a response quickly. 

TG: you should be concerned with him  
TG: hell fuck you up if he catches you  
TG: thats not even a threat  
TG: im just sayin  
TG: hes really possessive  
\--: Of you?  
\--: I'm sorry, David, I didn't realise you had such an abusive home life.  
TG: what  
TG: no  
TG: fucking gross  
TG: thats not what i meant you pervert  
TG: also stop calling me david  
TG: thats not my name  
TG: and i dont mean that like oh you dont get to call me that  
TG: i mean its literally not my name  
\--: I'm sorry for being presumptuous, Dave.  
TG: thats better  
TG: anyway  
TG: just thought you should know about my brother  
\--: He's a DJ, isn't he?

You blink at your phone in surprise. This guy is thorough. 

\--: He appears to have pretty regular work on Friday and Saturday nights.  
\--: I don't see any reason why he would be a bother to me.  
\--: He seems to leave you home alone an awful lot. 

A shudder slips down your spine and you swallow. 

TG: he knows i can look after myself  
TG: look  
TG: all im saying is  
TG: bro usually gets home around 3 or 4  
TG: so you came real close to getting your ass beat 

You lick your lips as you drop the last tidbit of information this guy needs to know when you'll reliably be at home and unsupervised. Of course, he picks it up immediately. 

\--: Are you telling me I should drop by earlier, then?  
\--: Is that an invitation, Dave?  
TG: youd fucking love it to be huh  
TG: what was with that photo man  
TG: i thought you were gonna send me pics of your dick or something  
\--: Did you get a chance to check out the others I sent you?  
\--: Or just the first one?  
TG: oh is that where the cock shots are at  
TG: hold on lemme look

Mildly amused, you pull up your e-mail. A different account has messaged you this time, with a subject line reading “More for you” and five attachments. When you open them up, your eyebrows raise a little.  
They're all of you. These, however, are shots taken outside, during the day. Two are at Jamail. In the one of you drinking coffee in the shade of a tree, it's obviously last Friday. But in the other you're stretched out on your stomach, shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of your waist, snapping shots of a couple skaters showing off for your camera. It's from your trip before last, nearly two weeks ago. There's one of you simply stepping out of your building, while the last two are of you at the bodega down the street, each on different days. Given the low frequency with which you leave the apartment, you estimate around three weeks of coverage in the five images.  
You don't really know how to react. A part of you is scared someone has been this close to you for almost a month and the only reason you know is he has chosen to reveal it to you. Another part is ashamed you didn't notice sooner, and tells you how disappointed Bro would be if he found out how badly you'd fucked up staying on guard. Still further, the surge of excitement, the thrill of danger, the thought that this guy means business sends a flush of arousal through you. 

The stir between your legs brings your mind back around to the forgotten need of your bladder and you decide the best reaction is no reaction. You'll sit back and see where this goes and let it happen. You leave your phone on your bed when you get up to relieve yourself, pulling on boxers in transit to your bedroom door. You check and see one of Bro's feet hanging off the edge of the futon and move as quickly and silently as possible to the bathroom.  
When you get back and check your phone again, the lack of texts surprises you. Figuring the guy's waiting for some sort of horrified response, you grin and tap out a message. 

TG: youre doing it wrong bro  
TG: youre supposed to keep those  
TG: i mean  
TG: i know im fine and all  
TG: but i already got a mirror if i wanna jerk off over my hot body  
\--: Do you?  
TG: what  
\--: Have you ever masturbated to your own image?

You pause, remembering how hard the picture he sent on Friday night had made you. 

TG: pfft  
TG: nah man  
TG: im 15 and ive got perpetual access to the internet  
TG: id say im pretty set on fap material  
TG: you though  
TG: damn  
TG: if the shit you sent me gets you off you need to expand your horizons  
TG: bet my bro could hook you up  
TG: hes got his own site  
TG: you probably knew that already  
\--: I would prefer it if you could “expand my horizons” instead.

The corniness of his answer gets to you and makes you snort a laugh. Still, you know you're tempting fate and your fingers tremble a little when they punch in your reply. 

TG: shit  
TG: you wanna see my dick that bad you gotta show me yours first  
TG: and dont cop out  
TG: ill know if you send me some shitty stock porn or whatever  
TG: whatever you send me ill send back  
TG: so unless you show me your ugly mug first  
TG: all you get is a crotch shot 

There's not really much to lose, you figure. Even if the guy comes through, it's not like there's anything that can actually make you uphold your end of the bargain if you don't want to. Pesterchum chimes twice, back to back, and a second window pops up over your current log. 

ghostyTrickster (GT) began pestering turntechGodhead (TG)

GT: holy shit, dude.  
GT: is it the end of the world? is this the twilight zone?  
GT: it's ten in the morning on a sunday and dave strider is awake before i am!  
GT: call the president, this is a national state of emergency!  
TG: dude shut the fuck up  
TG: its almost noon here  
TG: how have we known each other for five years and you still dont know how time zones work  
TG: also shouldnt you be in church or some lame shit  
GT: that's not until 11, duh.  
TG: dude i dont keep track of your bizarre religious customs  
GT: whatever, shut up.  
GT: that's not the point.  
GT: and dad's bugging me to get ready, so i've gotta get to the point.  
TG: which is...  
GT: which is!  
GT: be online later today.  
TG: seriously  
TG: lame  
GT: no, shut up.  
GT: because  
GT: i'm gonna ask my dad after church about picking you up for summer break!  
TG: dude  
TG: he's not gonna go for it  
TG: it like  
TG: 2500 miles  
GT: it'll be a road trip!  
GT: i can tell him it'll be a good father-son bonding experience and he'll totally go for it.  
GT: probably.  
TG: well good luck i guess  
TG: maybe while youre in church you can ask your skydad if hell put in a good word for you too  
GT: maybe i'll ask god to put in a good word for your height while i'm at it.  
GT: you're still legally a midget, right?  
TG: f u  
TG: maybe you should ask god to invest in some orthodontia for you first  
GT: dude, stfu, i like my teeth.  
TG: okay yeah  
TG: theyre pretty cute  
GT: awww.  
GT: it's okay, i like you pocket-sized too.  
TG: oh screw you  
GT: heheh.  
GT: anyway, i gotta get ready.  
GT: i think i hear my dad.  
TG: how is it even fair  
GT: what?  
TG: arent you supposed to be korean  
TG: shouldnt you be the shorter one  
GT: oh, pfft.  
GT: shit, that is my dad!  
TG: live up to your stereotype  
GT: i gotta go, dude!  
TG: but no  
TG: i gotta be the runt of the litter  
TG: you get all tall and buff  
TG: jade gets all...boom  
TG: damn girl look at that body  
TG: rose gets all  
TG: okay i dont know about rose  
TG: shes still taller than me  
TG: and has tits  
GT: fuck, he's got the shaving creamnkhkknbbfgbgh  
TG: meanwhile im just chillin over here  
TG: oh hey puberty  
TG: no its cool  
TG: just keep on going  
TG: im cool being forever 12  
ghostyTrickster (GT) is now an idle chum!  
TG: some day my pubes will come  
TG: oh youre busy being smothered in hygienic products  
TG: nm  
TG: have fun at god school 

You snort and close John's window. Despite your previous oath to pragmatism, it's hard not to devote a little wishful thinking to John's proposition actually working on his dad. If you've learned nothing else in your five-year friendship with Egbert, it's that his father is pretty eccentric. For all you know, the whole Family Bonding Road Adventure angle might be something right up his alley.  
The elimination of the current chat window drags you back to your previous conversation, temporarily forgotten while your focus was locked singularly on John. Only a few further lines greet you. 

\--: I'll consider your proposition.  
\--: You seem to be occupied.  
\--: I'll talk to you when you're less distracted.  
\--: I found something you might like, by the way.  
\--: I'll send it to you later.  
\--: Maybe you could take a few tips from it.  
\--: I'll see you again soon, Dave. 

anonChum (–) ceased pestering turntechGodhead (TG)

The last line sends a little shiver through you. Wetting your lips, you start up your computer and sit at your desk. The bruise on your cheek has faded only marginally and it'll probably be a few more days until it's light enough to be unnoticeable on your webcam. You sift through your YouTube messages, marking a few for response once you're presentable.  
A little over an hour into disinterestedly poking the internet, you get another e-mail. This time there's a video attachment and you decide you might as well check it out. Bro's not awake yet, so you plug in your headphones just in case. 

Whatever preamble the original video may have had is cut off. Instead, it jumps right into a close-up of a very young, very blonde twink deep-throating a man in his late-30s/early-40s. It's a serious stretch for you to see this kid as even eighteen. His hair is a little shorter than yours, but in the same style, and the way his slender body tenses and writhes is shortly explained by a cut-away. Another man is seated at the opposite end of a couch, roughly the same age as the man who has his hands buried in the blonde's hair, controlling the rise and bob of the mouth on his dick. He has the twink's lower half pulled across his lap, ass cocked upwards. You palm yourself, hips canting a bit, as the older man spreads the cheeks under his palm and slides a long, thick dildo into the boy.  
The thought of being in the blonde's position, filled to the brim on both ends, has you squeezing and stroking yourself in record time. The twists and angles the second man uses to thrust his toy in and out of the body beneath his hands make you picture being stretched and pulled open until you're as loose and sloppy as the boy on your monitor. His groans around the flesh in his mouth have you trying to imagine the feel of a cock being shoved down your throat. By the time the three of them change positions, you're already close.  
The blonde boy gets bent over the back of the couch, knees on the edge and ass presented, wet and gaping, to the two men who move in behind him. It only takes a few minutes of watching the two men pass him back and forth, trading hold of his hips to pull him forcefully onto their straining erections, before you're done in. You spill over your hand to the raw, guttural groans of the blonde being roughly fucked, the sound piped directly into your ears through your headphones. 

You clean yourself off, tuck yourself back into your boxers, and pull on a shirt. Your stomach is rumbling and you head into the kitchen. The fridge and the cupboards are both empty. With a sigh, you look over at the shock of blonde hair sticking up over the edge of the futon. Sunday is, without a doubt, the absolute worst day to intentionally piss Bro off. Still, you eye his wallet on the end table longingly.  
Frowning angrily, you look away and grab a glass. It takes twice as long for the water to cool down as you keep it at barely more than a trickle, not wanting the hiss of the full-strength stream to wake Bro. You drink two glassfuls at the sink to fill your stomach, then refill it a third time and take it back to your room. Computer chair pushed back from your desk, you sit for a long time, scowling, arms crossed over your stomach, thinking.  
Sunday is Hangover Day. Sunday is No Food Day. Usually you can deal with it, but usually you're shored up with 48 hours of at least a little more than six doughnuts, a coffee, and half a take-out carton of noodles. Your stomach hurts and it's making you grouchy. Another headache is insinuating itself at your temples. You grind your teeth and tilt your head back to stare at the ceiling. You won't steal on principal from the bodega at the corner, but you consider hitting up Gerland's if Bro doesn't get his shit together when he wakes up. 

Pesterchum chimes on your computer and you snap your head down to glare at your monitor. You're tired and no longer in the mood for this shit. Surprisingly, you're greeted by blue text, instead of generic black. You glance at the desktop clock. It's after 3 – John and his dad must have gone out to eat after church. 

ghostyTrickster (GT) began pestering turntechGodhead (TG)

GT: he said yes!

You blink at the screen, dumbfounded. A tentative smile breaks over your face. You lean forward to type. 

TG: …  
TG: seriously  
GT: yeah!  
GT: he said since i get out on a thursday, he can take a 4-day weekend to drive down there and back!  
GT: we'll be there on the 25th!  
TG: wow dude  
TG: i  
TG: didnt think that would actually happen  
GT: i know, right?  
GT: this is awesome!  
GT: oh man  
GT: now with you on board there's no way the girls can bail!  
TG: oh so im your chick magnet now  
GT: haha  
GT: dude, shut up, you know what i mean!  
GT: this is gonna be so cool!  
TG: well yeah  
TG: im gonna be there  
GT: pfft.

You smile fondly at your screen. The news has settled a giddy sort of happiness in your chest. One which you try to ignore, because it has you grinning like the biggest dork, but fail miserably to do so. All you can think about is an entire summer chilling with John, meeting his goofy-ass dad who cooks and actually gives two shits about people, spending time with the girls. For half a second you consider telling Bro – not now, but at some point. You kill the thought almost instantly. As long as it doesn't involve his shit, he could give a fuck what you do. Only thing that might come out of asking his permission is him denying it, just to be a dick, or holding it over your head for a month to make you “behave.” Better to just let Egbert and his dad show up at your door and take off with a “see you in three months!” 

GT: so, when it gets closer to the date, we can make more solid plans.  
GT: but it'll be the 25th for sure, so let your bro know that's when we'll be there.

You grin and snort knowingly. 

TG: yeah sure  
GT: this is gonna be so cool, dude!  
TG: i know man.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra warning this time around for gratuitous physical abuse.

The package shows up on Monday.  
”You givin' out our address on that little channel'a yours?” the sound of Bro's mildly irate voice coming through the front door makes you look over your shoulder as he walks into the apartment. A nondescript, brown box is in his hands and you watch him study it from a few different angles, shake it. You grip the controller in your hands a little tighter, eyeing him warily. He hefts the package into one hand, tossing it and catching it as he stares at you.

“Well?”  
”I ain't stupid, Bro,” you tell him quickly. “I wouldn't do nothin' like that.”  
Bro stares blankly at you a moment longer, before turning his face to regard the item.  
”Who's it from?” he asks, and you recognise the dangerous tone creeping into his voice. You shrug a little too quickly.  
”I dunno, man, probably John.”  
”Egbert's packages have labels on 'em,” he tells you, turning the box so you can see the top. It's completely blank – no postage, no street or return address – but for your name, written in unfamiliar handwriting. A cold weight settles in your stomach. You swallow around a mouth suddenly gone dry. 

“Shit, ain't even your birthday or nothin',” he sneers, looking again at the face of the package. “Who th'hell'd wanna send you somethin' anyway?”  
”I dunno, man!” you insist, getting to your feet. You know damn well there's only one person who would leave an unaddressed package for you at your door, and there is no way in _hell_ you want Bro finding out about him. Even worse is the possibility of Bro opening it and discovering whatever freaky shit might be inside. You sort of convulsively reach for the box as you face Bro, aborting the movement mid-gesture when he pulls his arm back quickly and gives you a challenging look. Turning your palm up placatingly, you sigh.  
”Look,” you try to reason. “Can I just see it? It's mine, ain't it?” 

Bro shows you the face of the box again with a, “There, see it?” making you grit your teeth in frustration. Normally, when he's this obviously trying to get your goat, you'd just walk away. But you're not willing to risk the contents of the package. If he keeps it and opens it himself and finds something weird, then you're going to get stuck with a lot of uncomfortable questions. You honestly don't know how he'd react if he found out some guy from the internet was jocking you, but you can imagine it wouldn't be pleasant no matter what. With another sigh, you drop your hand and let your shoulders slump. 

“Bro, c'mon,” you entreaty. “Can I just have it, please?”  
A cocky smirk lights Bro's face. “Sorry, little dude,” he tells you. “Shit's gotta go through customs first. Dunno what sketchy shit you're up to, but seein' how hot y'are t'get your hands on this, I think I gotta make sure this package is legit.” 

He keeps tossing the box, putting a little spin into it, as he turns away from you and you clench your fists. As you watch him head for the kitchen to find a knife to cut through the masking tape, you can hear your breath harsh in your ears. Your face feels hot with embarrassment and impotent rage and you flex your balled fingers angrily. You're fucked. If you walk away, he'll open the package out of curiosity; if you try to get it from him, he'll open it to spite you. There's only one option left to you and it's a shitty fucking prospect. You take a deep breath and close your eyes, steeling yourself against the consequences of your next action. 

You draw your leg back and kick Bro in the butt as hard as you can. He staggers forward with a furious shout, dropping the package. You kick one of his legs for good measure, then try to book it to your room. 

”What the fuck, y'little shit?!” Bro snarls. Something hard and sharp hits the back of your head, making you stumble, and you see your package roll down the hallway past you. A second later Bro appears in front of you. His elbow connects with your throat and you crumple, coughing and gagging. Wheezing for air with your forehead pressed to the carpet and your hands clutching your neck, you hear the jingle of Bro's belt and figure you've pretty successfully distracted him.  
”Th'fuck is wrong with you, y'entitled piece of shit?!” he demands, grabbing your shirt collar and shaking you. The first blow lands on your lower back, leather stinging where your shirt has hitched up to expose skin. You try to curl up, instinctively covering your head, but Bro's standing with one foot on either side of you and your knees hit one of his heels. He seizes your wrist, pulling your arm away from your body and bringing his belt down across your shoulderblades. A shout of pain escapes your lips before you can catch it. 

“ _Well?!_ ” Bro wallops you again, making you jerk in his grip. “Th'fuck'd you think was gonna happen, y'dumbfuck?”  
Another smack across your lower back makes you groan and jump.  
”Th'fuck made y'think y'could pull a stunt like that?!” 

You pitch your body forward, trying to wrench your arm from his fingers and scramble away. Bro answers by hauling you up onto your side. The pointed toe of his boot connects with your stomach and you cough, knees curling up towards your chest. He drops your arm and his belt comes down on your hip, on your upper arm in rapid succession. 

“What, y'think y'getta pull that shit and get off free?!” You throw one arm over your face as his belt whips by dangerously close, striking your shoulder. “Y'think y'getta throw a fuckin' tantrum when y'don't get what y'want?”  
He kicks you in the stomach again. You wheeze.  
”What? Don't got nothin' t'say?”  
Fingers close around your wrist, dragging your arm off your face again. Bro leans down, slaps you in the mouth as you gasp for air. He rips off your glasses, tosses them aside.  
”Lookit me when I'm talkin' t'ya, y'spoiled little brat!” he orders, mouth curled into a snarl. You look up into his shades, see your pallid, flinching reflection. Bro smacks you again.  
”Y'think it's okay t'backtalk me?” he demands. You swallow.  
”No,” you croak.  
”Y'think it's okay t'boss me around like y'own the place?”  
”No!”  
”Y'think it's fuckin' okay t'kick me in th'fuckin' back?!”  
”No!” you choke out. Bro leans back and smacks you in the face with his belt. You gasp in shock, feeling blood trickle from the new cut on your cheek.  
”But y'fuckin' did it anyway, didn'tcha?!” he presses a heel to your shoulder, grinding it down into the floor. Another cry of pain bursts from you and you bite your lower lip.  
”M'sorry!” you gasp desperately. The weight on your shoulder increases.  
”Oh, fuck you, y'little shit,” Bro growls, digging his heel in, twisting it until he pulls a sob from you and steps off. “Y'ain't near sorry yet.” 

He hauls back and the next blow from his belt lands across your chest. The next strikes your arms where you've thrown them back up to protect your face. Each that follows comes too fast, and it's not until you're curled into a ball and sobbing for air that he finally lays off. You get a parting kick to the back and Bro steps over you, leaving you huddled on the floor of the hallway.  
Not until you hear the sound of Bro resuming the game you had been playing do you risk moving. You go slowly, sniffling and pushing yourself onto your knees gingerly. The sore spots on your back and shoulders seize in pain and you sag against the wall for support when you finally stagger to your feet. Making only a brief stop to stoop and pick up the package where it lays forgotten on the floor, you hobble to your room.  
”Better stay in there 'til I say so if y'know what's good for ya!” Bro calls after you and you ease your door closed quietly. Carefully, you limp across your room, pitching yourself face-first onto your bed and sighing into your mattress. 

___ 

You almost feel like throwing the stupid thing out the window. You come close, in fact, but then you remind yourself that doing so would mean you got your ass beat for no reason and that would be stupid. Half an hour ago Bro got a phone call and took off. You don't know how long he's going to be gone, but you took the opportunity to filch a knife from the kitchen. Now you're sitting on your bed, back and shoulders still aching, leaning against the wall with your legs crossed around the anonymous box.  
You huff as you cut through the tape sealing the damn thing. It's probably something stupid. Or something bizarre, like hair. A whole box of hair; that sounds appropriately creepy. You peel back the lid, fully expecting to find a wig's worth of blonde hair, painstakingly collected over a month's worth of late night visits by some mouthbreathing loser. Instead, you reveal bundled up, wrinkled cloth. The print is unnervingly familiar, and you furrow your brow, eyeing it with suspicion. Carefully, you pinch the thin cotton between your index finger and thumb and slowly pull it out of the box. Holding the little bundle up, brief inspection confirms that it is, indeed, a balled up pair of your boxers. Another familiar print is revealed below it and you grab the second pair with a sinking feeling of paranoia.  
Both are wadded up almost exactly the same way and you drop the pair in your hand with a shout of disgust when the reason why hits you. You kick both sets of your boxers onto the floor and they roll, near-perfect little balls, their form molded in shape by the dried, crusted semen coating them. Grimacing, you look sidelong at the open box, swallowing your feeling of revulsion to peer in again. A typed note lies atop what looks like plastic packaging. Still frowning in disgust, you pick it up to read. 

        Dave,  
    On my last visit I took the liberty of borrowing a couple articles of clothing  
    from you. Unfortunately, as you can see, they were regrettably soiled while  
    in my possession. I apologise & insist you accept the enclosed replacements  
    as reconciliation.

You scoff incredulously at the note in your hand. You look down at your wadded boxers on the floor. Short of burning, you can't really think of anything you could possibly do to make them seem clean again. The knowledge that some random dude used them, repeatedly apparently, as jizz rags is just _too_ disturbing. He probably rubbed them all over his dick too. Or his face. You shudder and look back into the box with a sneer. A sort of frustrated, seething rage is simmering in you, because you _really_ don't want to be down two pairs of underwear. After all, clothes are pretty low on Bro's priority list, right down there with food and the electric bill. 

You dig the last two items out of your bizarre gift box, finding that they are, just as the letter stated, replacement boxers. Your eyebrows go up as you turn one plastic package over in your hands. More precisely, the label on them informs you, they are 100% Swiss silk boxers, both in “charcoal,” and the packaging alone speaks of how expensive they must be. You swallow thickly, feeling heat in your face. Warily, you pull your phone from your pocket to do a quick check on the name of the company. Your jaw drops when you see their prices.  
Eyes wide, you gawk at the package in your hands. You could eat for a month on the combined cost of these. Aside from your mixing gear, which was still second-hand from Bro, you're pretty sure this is the most expensive thing you've ever owned; and it's fucking underwear. You bite your lip, debating. The whole situation is creepy as fuck. You feel like, if you accept these, you're going to be seriously indebted to this guy. There's no way you would ever let one of your _friends_ spend that much money on you, and here's this weirdo pretty much dumping cash into your lap. On the other hand, there's...not really any way for you to turn them down. It's not like you can send them back anywhere, and besides, you really do need replacements now. 

You slide your finger under the plastic seal and shake one pair out of its packaging. It pools in your hands, cool and soft, and you spend a moment rolling the cloth over your fingers in fascination. It almost feels like water to your touch. You've never even touched fabric this nice before. You catch yourself imagining how it would feel on your junk and lick your lips.  
Minding the stings and aches of the still-tender spots on your body, you shimmy out of your jeans as quickly as possible, taking extra care not to abrade the welts running down your left thigh. You carefully slip your legs into your new boxers, savouring the cool whisper of fabric over your abused skin as you slide them up. When you finally tug them over your butt, lifting your hips to accommodate and smoothing them straight, you find a groan creeping up the back of your throat. You glide your hands over the front, palming yourself a little, the heat from your hand and the soft pressure of fabric on your skin making your eyes roll back. 

With a thunk, your head falls back against the wall, and you spread your legs to accommodate your roaming hands. Either palm moves in exploratory circuits, mapping out the feel of silk on skin. One returns, periodically, to rub at your growing erection; the other makes increasingly bolder incursions to the space between your thighs. You angle your hips forward, press two fingers into the little valley of cloth over your crack, bite your lip to stifle a moan as you drag them along your sensitive skin. When you reach your balls, you give yourself a gentle squeeze, sighing at the supple sensation enveloping you. Rubbing the soft fabric back and forth over your sack, you tend to your cock with your other hand. Your erection is already tenting your boxers, leaving a wet spot where precum has begun soaking into their front. You curl your fingers around your dick, completely disregarding your fly. Instead, you wrap cool, smooth cloth around your heated skin, tugging lightly at your cock. The sensation makes your hips buck and you groan, picking up a quick, sloppier pace than usual.  
It doesn't take long to do you in. You let the hand playing with your balls dip down on occasion, slide fingers over your taint and rub silk against your asshole, making your breath hitch each time. The entirely novel feel of unfamiliar cloth caressing your prick is too good to restrain yourself, and your strokes gain speed and excitement exponentially. You bite your lip hard when you cum, sooner than usual, a harsh breath of air exhaled through your nose. Semen soaks the front of your boxers and you moan behind your lips, looking down hazily at the mess you've made.  
A thought strikes you and you laugh, pushing off the wall to clean up. As you peel the soiled fabric from your skin you sigh, still chuckling a little in bemusement over the irony in the fact that you just came in the boxers that were supposed to be replacements for the very same reason.


	6. Chapter 6

You and Bro don't talk for two days. In fact, all of Tuesday and most of Wednesday, Bro acts like you don't exist. On the surface, this would seem like a good thing – he's not fucking with you, not trying to start a fight or dragging you onto the roof to flail around with swords. But he's also not feeding you. He still hasn't gone grocery shopping, and on Tuesday night, when you thought you'd smelled pizza out in the living room, you'd come out only to find an empty box.  
Wednesday evening, therefore, finds you digging around the futon, trying to scrounge change. Bro picked up a new gig and is already out of the apartment for the night, but he's left an empty kitchen and you're grumpily digging through his clothes, trying to scrape together enough to at least shut your grumbling stomach up. Halfway through your search, you stumble over a smuppet trap and end up wasting a good five minutes of energy throwing plush sex toys and Bro's clothing at the wall in a fit of helpless rage. Only the pounding in your head curbs you, making you flop down on the futon. You curl your knees up to your chest and put your forehead on them, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes and gritting your teeth. When your breathing finally chills out, you get back up and resume your search.

Eventually, you dig up enough for ramen and a bag of Cheetos. You tug a hoodie on, make sure your phone and keys are on you, and straighten your shades. As a little, self-conscious afterthought, you rub your cheek. The welt where Bro's belt hit you has become a pretty nasty yellow bruise, too low on your face to be hidden behind your glasses. You haven't been able to make a new video in almost a week because Bro keeps fucking your face up, and people thinking you're getting your ass kicked would be way too uncool. Scowling as you think about it, you let yourself out of the apartment, locking up. You tug your hood up to further obscure the bruises and take the stairs at a trot, change jingling in your pockets. 

Halfway down the block to the bodega, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You stop in your tracks, glance down towards it. There's another buzz and you sigh in irritation, shoving your hand into your jeans and tugging your phone out. The light from the screen makes your head throb a little and you glare down at pesterchum. 

anonChum (–) began pestering turntechGodhead (TG)

\--: I missed you, Dave.  
\--: I'm surprised you're dressed so warmly in this weather.  
\--: I never heard back from you about your present.  
\--: Did you enjoy it?  
TG: fuck this  
TG: fuck you  
TG: im not dealing with this shit right now

You jam your phone back into your pocket and keep walking. There's another buzz as you walk into the store, which you angrily ignore. The owner's younger daughter is working the register and you toss her a casual wave. She's about a year and a half older than you, with curly brown hair pulled back into a braid. Her round face lights up at your entrance and she starts to greet you back, before she actually gets a good look at you. Her smile falters and breaks as she blinks and averts her eyes, her wave becoming timid. You feel yourself flush with embarrassment and turn quickly down the nearest aisle. Your phone vibrates insistently and you stop again, huffing in frustration. You fish your phone back out and scowl at it, grabbing a bag of Cheetos off the shelf. 

\--: I'm sorry if I somehow upset you.  
\--: I only meant to extend a gesture of goodwill.  
\--: Are you all right?  
\--: Did something happen?

You purse your lips furiously, passing into the next aisle. 

TG: aside from the fact that I got my fucking ass beat cuz of you  
TG: no im fucking great  
TG: couldnt be better  
TG: i get to look after myself another fucking night  
TG: im buying fucking ramen with floor change  
TG: so I dont hit three days of not eating  
TG: and now i got some dude dick riding me about my fucking feelings and shit  
TG: im doing fucking awesome

You pocket your phone with another angry thrust and dump your dinner on the counter, making the girl behind it jump a little. Wincing, you mutter, “Lo siento,” but she waves you off, eyebrows knit slightly with concern.  
“¿Estás bien?” she asks softly. You shrug dismissively, keeping your eyes fixed on the counter as you dig change out of your hoodie and start laying it out for her to count. 

«It's nothing,» you mumble. «Just stupid shit...»  
«Your brother do that?» the girl asks as the two of you sort out your payment. You nod stiffly. She hums in disapproval, sounding almost like an angry cat.  
«He's an asshole,» she states bluntly, drawing a half-chuckle from you. «Did I tell you he tried to pick up Reina last week?»  
You grimace. She's referring to her older sister, who's 19 and runs the store on weekend afternoons.  
«I'm sorry about him, Delfina,» you sigh, but the girl snorts as she rings you up  
«Not your fault he's an asshole,» she says. You pocket your meal as she starts scooping change off the counter. She looks up at the gesture and gives you a quick, somewhat sympathetic smile.  
«See ya later,» she tells you, and you give her a second casual wave as you make your way to the door. Your phone is going nuts against your hip, but you ignore it until you're outside. 

\--: I'm sorry you're having a heard time, Dave.  
\--: You must know I wouldn't do anything if I thought it would hurt you.  
\--: Is there anything I can do to help?  
\--: Please let me know.  
\--: I hate to think of you being mistreated.  
\--: If you need anything, just ask.  
\--: Let me take care of you.

You sneer sceptically, hesitating to respond. As loath as you may be to admit it, there is a small, pathetic part of you that wants to take this guy up on his offer. It wants to spill all the things you never tell your friends; about not having food for days on end, about wearing long sleeves and hoods to cover bruises, about being left alone in the apartment for hours and hours and days. It wants someone to understand how shitty and stupid Bro constantly makes you feel; how alienating it is to have the kids in your neighbourhood disallowed to talk to you, because you get lumped in with Bro and his shit reputation in the complex.  
The greater part of you, however, squashes all that bullshit because you know better than that. You know you weren't raised to be some whining, self-pitying brat. You know Bro's done a lot for you, and you should be grateful because you could have it so much worse. The texts continue to pop up, filling the space left by your hesitation. 

\--: Let me do something to make you feel better.  
\--: Your brother is out for the night, correct?

A swooping, gut-turning mix of dread and excitement puts a hitch in your breath. You stare agape at your phone for a moment, before biting your lower lip and lifting your head. You scan your surroundings – there's not crowd to hide this guy tonight, but you know he must be somewhere nearby. Nothing catches your eye and you pick up your pace a bit. He wouldn't grab you off the street. Not when he's already demonstrated his ability to enter the apartment at will. But that doesn't stop your skin crawling or your breath speeding up in anticipation. With a last glance over your shoulder, you let yourself into the building and take the stairs two at a time.  
Normally, you're comfortable enough with the climb that it doesn't wind you. Not eating has put you on your last reserves of energy, however, and you find yourself panting by the time you reach your apartment door. You let yourself in, close and lock the front door quickly, slump against it and sink to the floor, looking back down at the phone clutched in your hand. There are no further messages and you figure he must be waiting for a response. You let out a shuddering breath as you reply. 

TG: why  
TG: you looking to step up your game  
TG: gonna come up here and have your way with my tender young body  
TG: i gotta tell ya  
TG: i probably wont be much fun  
TG: im not exactly in peak physical condition right now  
TG: ramen can only do so much in the energy department  
TG: but i dunno  
TG: maybe youd like that  
TG: catching me all weak from hunger  
TG: vulnerable  
TG: unable to fight back  
\--: Dave.  
\--: If I didn't know any better, I'd say it sounds like you might enjoy that scenario as much as myself.

You gulp, cheeks heating. The slight tightness in your pants attests to the accuracy of his statement and you push yourself to your feet. Better to get some food in you before you get yourself worked up. You tap out a response. 

TG: maybe you should come find out

There's a pause before you get an answer. 

\--: We'll see.  
\--: I hate to leave you waiting, but I have something that needs finishing up.  
\--: I'll see you soon, Dave.

anonChum (–) ceased pestering turntechGodhead (TG)

Another little shiver runs down your spine. You put a pot of water on to boil and adjust your pants a bit. Silk rubs against your balls, your half-hard dick, and you smile secretively, thinking of how you never admitted to how much you've been enjoying your gift the past two days. You lean back against the kitchen counter, yanking open your bag of Cheetos and waiting for your ramen to cook. 

In the end, nothing truly eventful comes of Wednesday night. You stay up fairly late, on edge with apprehension. Bro's Xbox keeps you moderately entertained, distracts you at least, but there's still a level of tension in the back of your mind that spikes with every bump or footstep you happen to catch. By the time 3:45 rolls around, you're fading fast, head drooping so that your chin occasionally bumps against your chest. The clatter of the controller falling from your slack grip makes you jump, eyes snapping open. With a sharp inhale, you blink, assess your surroundings. In game, your character is running into a wall and, as far as you can tell, the sounds coming out of your TV are the only in the complex. Rubbing your face, hissing when you press a little too hard on your bruised left cheek, you decide to call it a night. As you shuffle off to bed, you figure the guy must have been all talk after all. Nevertheless, when you reach your bedside, you strip out of your jeans and shirt, slip under your sheet wearing just a pair of the silk boxers he'd given you. Just like you have for the past two days. Just in case. 

_ _ _ 

You wake earlier on Thursday than is normal for you, disoriented. An odd feeling settles in your brain as you become more aware, giving you the impression that you'd been awoken, rather than waking naturally. Your sheet is cast off and bundled at your feet, unusual given that you sleep like a log, but not unreasonable considering the apartment is already pretty warm for 10am. You blink and glare at your clock for confirming the appalling hour.  
Paranoia prods at you insistently and you sit up, rubbing your eyes and looking around your room as if it has an answer for why the fuck you're awake. When nothing immediately presents itself as the source of your nagging anxiety, you shake the feeling off with a bit of a shudder. Slouching over the edge of your bed, your bare feet touch the still-cool floor and you stretch. You stand, grab an empty glass off your desk, and head out of your room, scratching just below your ribs. 

A cursory glance before you enter the kitchen tells you Bro isn't home yet. No chance that his return to the apartment was what woke you up, then. You run a hand through your hair as you run the tap, groggily half taking in your surroundings. Mid-yawn, your eyes fall on the loaf of white bread sitting on your counter and you halt. You give it a long, hard stare as your brain parses confusion, shock, dawning realisation. When the implications finally settle in, you whip your head around, scanning for what else is out of place.  
The half-dozen katana that usually occupy the fridge are leaned carefully against one counter. A sharp twist has the tap off and you leave it to wrench open the refrigerator door. Inside, there's a gallon of 2%, lunch meat, Kraft singles, eggs, butter, about a dozen bottles of apple juice. In a daze, you open the freezer as well. Instead of another hair-trigger trap sending shuriken at your face, you're greeted by stacks of frozen pizzas, microwave dinners, and a half gallon of ice cream. You slam the fridge shut, moving on to the cupboards and throwing them open in stunned anticipation. A flat of ramen is wedged on its side next to a box of Lucky Charms. There's two neat rows of mac and cheese beside them, a tub of Skippy and another of grape jelly, unopened jars of mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup. Ending the whole array is a family pack of individually packaged Cheetos.  
You stare in awe at the shelves before you for a long moment. A sudden thought strikes you, rouses you. You slam the cupboard shut and walk swiftly to the front door. Sure enough, you find it unlatched. With a quick turn, you relock the deadbolt, inwardly thankful that Bro hadn't come home to find it open first. You're pretty sure a second break-in would not only arouse his suspicion, but also probably catch you an ass beating for not being aware of someone else in the apartment. 

A quick thrill shivers up your spine at the thought that someone had been in the apartment again, but you push it aside, thinking of Bro instead. You know there's two outcomes possible when he gets home and inevitably finds the kitchen fully stocked. Either he assumes you stole everything and whups you for going overboard, or he takes a more passive-aggressive approach and punishes you by eating all your food. Pre-emptively resenting both scenarios, you stride back to the kitchen, formulating how to handle this situation. The frozen foods are a loss – there's simply nowhere to hide them. With a sigh, you pull out two pizzas, tearing into their packaging. If nothing else, you can reduce their number right now and at least get to enjoy a couple before they're gone. You layer the two pizzas on top of each other on a plate and toss them into the microwave before turning back to the rest of the food.  
The items in the main body of the refrigerator tuck away pretty neatly in the crisper. You have to lay the milk on its side, which makes you a little concerned about it leaking once you open the jug, but you at least know with certainty that everything will be safe from discovery. The only time vegetables come into the apartment is when they're on Big Macs. You shove the katana back onto the emptied shelves and wedge the fridge door shut.  
The non-perishables are easier to deal with. It takes a couple trips, arms loaded with boxes of dry foods, but you eventually get everything stashed in your bedroom closet. You rearrange a few crates, stack a pile or two of dirty laundry just so, and you've got all your food completely concealed. A moment is spent on nerves over the chance of Bro checking the house's tapes and catching you sneaking food around, but you reason that if he hasn't said anything more about the last break-in, he's probably being pretty lax with surveillance lately. Pushing your worries aside, you head back out to the kitchen to pick up your breakfast. 

The plate in the microwave has become host to a gooey heap of melted cheese and fused together pizza crust that makes your mouth water. You grab a fork from a drawer, an apple juice from the crisper, and carefully balance scalding hot plastic on your fingertips to carry back to your room. You kick your door shut behind you. As you situate yourself on your bed to eat, draping a shirt across your bare thighs to keep the plate from burning them, you hear the chime of your phone. Too ravenous to be bothered with anything but eating, however, you ignore it in favour of digging in. 

Bro still isn't home by the time you finish, so you decide to throw another meal in the microwave. You bring your phone with you into the kitchen and opt for a meatloaf TV dinner this time around. Leaning against the counter with the microwave humming at your back, you check your messages. There's new email waiting, no subject and from a third different dummy account. You can easily guess its contents as you open it up, see the two jpeg attachments. There's actually a line of text in the main body of the message this time, reading simply, “I'm glad you like your present.” Your skin prickles a little as you load the jpegs.  
Sure enough, he's sent you two new pictures of yourself sleeping. The first is tame – just you laying on your side, bony shoulder bare of the sheet tucked around you and hair in your eyes. The second, though, makes you swallow, sends a little surge of fearful excitement down to your dick. Where the previous picture was obviously shot from your bedside, the angle on this one would only be possible were the photographer at least partially kneeling on your bed. There's a hand at the edge of the photo, clutching your sheet as it pulls it back, exposing your bare skin, your skinny hips poking out of your boxers. The boxers he gave you. The boxers you're currently wearing. You swallow again and smooth a hand over your clothed crotch, pressing down on your half-formed erection.  
It occurs to you that the presence of someone hovering over you, stripping you, was what woke you. You find yourself wondering what else might have happened had you not. Rubbing yourself almost absentmindedly, you study the second picture. Your brow is slightly furrowed, a sure sign you're close to waking, probably disturbed by your loss of covering. You imagine waking up to see someone knelt over you, maybe with their pants already open. In your mind, the feel of someone rubbing his cock on your cheek rouses you, the sight of him straddling your shoulders makes you gasp, granting enough leeway for firm, hot flesh to push past your lips. A groan bubbles up from the back of your throat and you dig the heel of your palm down the length of your hard-on. 

The shrill beep of the microwave jars you out of your fantasy and you almost drop your phone in surprise. Panting from a mixture of lust and shock, you pull your hand away from your boxers, rubbing the back of your neck self-consciously as you turn to attend to your food. You flatten the box the microwave dinner came in and use it as a hotpad to carry your meal back to your room. It still needs to cool, so you set it on your desk next to your computer before flopping down on your bed.  
Boxers shoved down to your knees, it only takes a few tight, sharp tugs before your flagging erection is back at attention. You're rough with yourself, wanting to finish quick, pulling your meat with a quick, firm grip that sends the occasional jolt of pain up your spine. Each one makes your eyes roll back and a groan fall from your lips. You think of large, heavy hands clutching your arms, digging fingers into your flesh, pinning you down. You try to imagine the feel of someone forcing their cock into your mouth, fucking your face, and you splatter over your hand and stomach so quickly your food is still warm by the time you're done cleaning up. 

Bro gets home shortly after you're done eating. The shower comes on, putting you at ease with the knowledge that if shit's going to go down, you've got at least an hour to brace for it. You situate yourself at your computer, booting it up and discovering one last surprise. Stacked next to your mouse are a box of AA batteries and a packet of bus tickets. With eyebrows raised, you pick up both, wondering what the batteries could be for and feeling silently grateful for a way out of the apartment that doesn't involve pissing off Bro. You almost feel compelled to email the guy back and thank him, but as you turn to your monitor and watch pesterchum launching, you figure he'll probably bother you later anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

No confrontation comes when Bro wakes up Thursday afternoon, nor is he awake to give you shit on Friday when you get up, so you figure you're in the clear. Nevertheless, you decide to exercise your newly acquired freedom and get out of the apartment before you break your four-day streak of not talking to him. The bruises on your face have faded well enough and you dress lightly for the heat, skinny jeans hugging silk to your butt and a thin cotton tee pulled tight over your chest. You slap together a quick sandwich in the kitchen, moving quietly so as not to wake Bro, and wolf it down as you collect your keys, camera, bus tickets, and phone. Grabbing an AJ, you slip out of the apartment and jog down the flights of stairs between you and the street.

In the end, you never really genuinely thanked the guy for all the food. He texted you yesterday evening and you played it cool and aloof. After all, you don't want him getting any wrong ideas. You may want him to fuck you, sure, but showing gratitude might make him think you're actually into him or something. It's getting hard as it is not to think this guy legitimately cares about you. Between the attention and the presents, you initial assessment of him as just some laughable, pathetic creeper is running a little thin in your mind. It's confusing, to the point where you found yourself almost messaging Rose about it last night.

The tiny, nagging voice in the back of your mind that's still holding out the opinion that this whole situation is dangerous simply won't give it up. If you're rational and listen to it then, yeah, it does have a point. You don't actually know this guy. You don't know his name, or what he does for a living, or how he found you. All you know is he's got money to burn trying to get into your pants. Other than that, you're in the dark. As far as you know, he could be a serial killer, just waiting for you to let your guard down. You don't think it's likely, considering he's had two opportunities to off you already, but the point is that simply don't know enough about him to say one way or the other.  
Aside from that panicking nag, there's also the part of you that's so into this it gives you cause for concern. If you think about it too much, you start to wonder what's wrong with you. It doesn't exactly seem normal that the idea of being raped should turn you on as much as it does. Your mind keeps going back to fantasies of being restrained, subdued, forcibly penetrated. Your rational side tells you that wanting something like that can't be healthy, that you should be ashamed.  
Both sides – the fearful and the eager – conflict with each other until a final, greater part of your brain shuts them both down and you tell yourself to just deal with it. You're mad at yourself for worrying so much about the whole thing. So you're fucked up – Bro raised you, so there's no real surprise there. It's not like freaking out about it is going to change anything. Some cyberstalker creep wants your nuts and that makes you hard and you can just buck up and deal with it. You're not really even in that much danger – if shit gets bad, you know how to take care of yourself. 

This final impulse is what stopped you from talking to Lalonde last night. You know she would have pried, gotten the whole story out of you, probably flipped and told you to call the cops or something equally as stupid. You know what you're doing. You don't need her fussing on the sidelines, telling you to blow your chance at finally getting laid and postulating that your desire to be violently pounded stems from your daddy never loving you or some shit.  
You end up stewing in your own thoughts the whole bus ride across town. By the time you get to the skate park, you're pretty done with spazzing over the topic completely and have decided it doesn't matter. Someone gives a shit about you. Someone cares enough about you to feed you, and send you clothes, and follow you around. Someone actually thinks you're fuckable, and that turns you on, so there's no problem. Whatever happens, you want it, so you can deal with it. 

_ _ _ 

“¿Ay lo que onda?” 

The sound of a mirthful, slightly scratchy voice causes you to lift your head from your camera. A group of three boys is heading your way and you push yourself up to sit on your heels. The lankiest of the trio waves with an easy grin and hooded eyes, board tucked under one arm. You brush a hand through your bangs and toss him a nod with a jerk of your chin. 

“¡Ay ese!” you straighten into a stand. «Not much, what's up?» 

The two of you dap, exchange a hand slap, and he pulls you into a hug. The boy at his elbow, a broad-shouldered kid with his hair slicked back into a safety 'hawk, gives you a friendly nod as he leans on his crutches. Bringing up the rear is a messy-haired guy who barely hits 5' 3” and scowls at your presence.  
“Pendejo,” he greets you with a sneer. You pull out of the tallest guy, Gavin's gangly embrace and slip your hands into your pockets, giving the last boy a smug smirk.  
”¿Que pedo, cabrón?” you answer, getting a bit of a snarl in response as the guy folds his arms across his chest. 

The three of them you know pretty informally from the park. You've shot them a couple of times, gotten to know them a little. The first time you met was actually when you'd seen Teo, who's paralysed from the waist down, trying to work out a couple tricks on his board that involved his crutches. You had wanted to photograph him, but he got too embarrassed under pressure and you ended up just chilling with them. 

«What're you guys up to?» you ask Gavin, ignoring the third boy's attitude. Kai has inexplicably hated you since the day you met; you're over it.  
«Kai's girl, Tanya's comin' down today,» Gavin tells you in his easy, relaxed tone. «Thought maybe you'd be down to kick it with us.»  
«She's not “my girl,”» Kai mutters and you shrug casually.  
«Sure, why not?» 

Usually, you're not really into actually hanging out with a lot of the other kids at the park. For the most part, they tend to stick together in already familiar groups, giving you shit because you don't go to whatever school, or else stunting when they see your camera. These three, though, tend to be all right. The lot of you grab a miraculously free spot in the shade and kick back, talking about nothing.  
You watch Gavin hit the halfpipe, all shaggy hair and gangly limbs that should be impossibly long for skating. Kai practically turns skateboarding into a contact sport and you get some great shots of him nearly starting a brawl with a pair of stocky white guys. Teo breaks them up with a deliberate smack of metal across Kai's shin that he plays as an accident. All three drop back in with you periodically, shooting the shit and passing around a shared bottle of purple Faygo mixed with vodka.  
By 5, you've got a decent buzz going and the four of you are sacked out on the grass. Gavin is recounting a story about babysitting a friend of theirs' first acid trip last week, occasionally interjected by commentary from Kai. It feels good to not be worrying about stupid shit and you catch yourself grinning a bit as you listen. The combination of alcohol and good company has you relaxed, a feeling you haven't had all week. 

“Hey, new guy,” the sudden sound of a girl's voice immediately behind you nearly makes you jump out of your skin. Gavin snorts a laugh, snickering, «Oh man, your face, dude,» as a shadow looms over you. Collecting yourself and tilting your head back, you see the source looking down at you.  
”Hey, is you black?” the girl asks bluntly, eyebrows raised and a grin playing on her lips. Kai mutters an, “Oh, for fuck's sake,” and you quirk and eyebrow at her.  
”...What?”  
“You deaf or somethin'?” she flops down in the grass beside you, crossing her legs and, perplexingly, licking her pinkie. A second later, you have to do a frantic roll as she aims it at your ear. “S'cool if you is. I'm legally blind.”  
She taps her rose-coloured, cateye shades.  
”So, is you black or what?” she persists. you sit up and face her, shrugging lazily.  
”I'unno, what d'you think?” 

She puts her hands on her knees and leans towards you, wrinkling her nose. You rest your chin in your palm and slip on your pokerface, returning the scrutiny she's currently giving you. Her hair is pulled back and parted into pigtails that poof out on either side of her neck. She is unabashedly rocking dark green bike shorts that are paired with red, hi-top Chucks and some bizarrely cut, garishly patterned, 80s throwback top. After some over the top, intense study, she nods decisively.  
“Yeah, you black.”  
You can't help but crack up at her pronouncement and she fires back another grin. “You look like your daddy fucked some white bitch and you came out _hella_ chalky,” she tells you, making Gavin bust a gut and Teo snicker softly.  
”Fuckin' Christ, T,” Kai grumbles.  
”I dunno,” you scrunch your face up a bit, feeling a little punchy. “My Bro always told me someone in the family must'a fucked a slave way back and that's how come I got a nigger nose.” 

You see the girl's eyebrows go up challengingly. Gavin holds his fist to his mouth as if waiting for a fight, and Teo's eyes dart between the two of you on the grass. After letting you twist for about a minute, the girl grins again.  
”Man, I'd punch your brother in the nuts if I met him,” she declares and you honestly laugh at the mental image. A smirk splits her face and she keeps on. “I ain't even kiddin', shit! Bet he's the kinda whitebread trailer motherfucker that don't expect a girl to just run up on him and POW!”  
She jabs the air to punctuate her sentence and both you and Gavin crack up. It feels good to actually be laughing with other people, and when you catch the girl still grinning at you, you give her a genuine smile. She leans forward and slides her finger up the top of your nose to poke the bridge of your shades. 

“I like the spots though, coolkid.”  
”Dave, you introduce yourself proper.  
”Tanya,” she nods, jamming her hand out. You shake, she nearly takes your arm off, Kai snorts derisively. “So!” she turns to the group. “Where we'at today?”  
”Gavin's.”  
”Gavin's.”  
”Gavin's,” she answers her own question in sync with the other two. Gavin, meanwhile, hangs both arms over his head and points down at himself. Tanya whips back around to look at you and you freeze as you realise you were self-consciously rubbing the freckles on your nose. Your eyebrows go up.  
”Huh?”  
Tanya cracks another, almost predatory grin and cackles, “Y'wanna get high, little boy?”  
”Oh, _hell_ yes.” 

_ _ _ 

At 10, you decide you should probably head home before the buses fuck you over. You feel warm and a little hazy, stomach comfortably full, as you gently ease Kai up from where he's fallen asleep against your shoulder. It's almost enough to make you not want to leave. 

You haven't had a friend's house to visit since you were 8, when a single mom with a boy your age moved into an apartment two floors down. You'd spent one day watching horror movies together while the boy's mother was at work and ate TV dinners with them on the floor, amongst stacks of still-packed boxes. A week later, your shitty AC unit went out and Bro stole theirs to replace it. You weren't allowed over after that. 

Gavin's house rules seemed to be about as lax as yours, minus the weird mindfuckery from Bro. The five of you got blazed out in the living room, making rounds with a hand-blown glass bong while Cartoon Network played in the background. You and Tanya sprawled out on opposite ends of the couch and kicked each other for space until Kai made a disgusted noise and told the two of you to stop flirting.  
”What, you jealous or somethin'?” you asked as Tanya stuck her tongue out at him. She cackled and added, “Yeah, but who he jealous of though?” making Kai flush and snap his mouth shut.  
Gavin's parents came home separately, his mom sharing a bowl with all of you before starting dinner and his dad offering you a Dos Equis. Everyone crowded around the table to eat. Stoned, still a little buzzed, it was hard not to feel completely content. The first home-cooked meal in as long as you could remember was heaped in front of you, Gavin's mother piling a little extra on your plate as she chastised you for being too damn skinny. 

After dinner, the adults left you to your own devices. You and Tanya nabbed seats back on the couch again, while Teo put on a DVD of the second season of _The Boondocks_. Kai elbowed in a seat next to you, making you the middle of a sandwich while he bitched about how you didn't get to hog all the good spots. A few more bowls circulated, and Tanya and Gavin teamed up to goad you into shotgunning Kai.  
It was probably just the fact that you were stoned, or that he wasn't actively being a shit to you, but he was actually pretty cute up close. His coal black eyelashes were a bit long for a guy, and there was a little cluster of moles that ran along his hairline on the left, from the ridge of his brow to his cheekbone. His skin had the sort of light brown tone that you just _knew_ only got richer in the sun, rather than frying to a crisp and proliferating freckles like yours did. When you exhaled, his eyes slipped open a little, revealing slate grey that reminded you of the pictures you'd seen of John's overcast, Washingtonian winters.  
Kai's gaze met yours and you couldn't help but smirk wickedly. You pushed your face forward just enough so your lips brushed his, letting your tongue dart out to swipe his upper lip. In triumph, you watched a deep flush spread over his face before he jerked away, spluttering and coughing. The shock threw him off and he ended up in a bit of a fit, doubled over and hacking, managing to spit out an angry, “¡J-Joto!” as you rubbed his back and Teo passed water your direction. By the time he recovered, Kai's face had gone dark red and he sat up, shoving your hand off and shooting you a nasty glare. You shrugged him off, draping your arm along the couch behind his head, trying not to look too smug. Whatever display he may have put on, he didn't end up moving from his seat. For the rest of the night, he was conspicuously quiet, even while your fingers occasionally found the nape of his neck and you remained starkly aware of the warmth of his thigh against yours. 

Tanya sucks in a deep breath and sighs as you carefully pull yourself up off the couch. The only source of light is a single lamp, giving the room a soft, warm glow, and you can see her squinting as she lifts her head. Gavin and Teo have long since retreated to crash and the house is quiet. As you rise from the couch, Kai sort of wobbles into an upright sit, grunting fussily, before slumping back sideways. His head hits Tanya's thigh and she pushes her fingers into his hair, scratching his scalp as he sort of cuddles up against her butt. You snort in amusement, half wondering if they ever really were a couple. You catch Tanya's grin shining at you in the low light. 

“You too good now or somethin', coolkid?” her voice is drowsy and you return her smile.  
”I ain't lookin' to break my back on someone's couch,” you shrug.  
”Wake 'n' bake, though, mmmm,” she murmurs, eyes sliding shut and head tilting back against the arm of the couch. You chuckle and she looks back up at you. “Hey, c'mere.”  
You watch her dig into her purse at the foot of the couch, her shifting making Kai groan in protest. After a bit of a search, she pulls out her phone, thrusting it in your direction. “Trade me.”  
You fish your own out and exchange with her. Without her glasses, she has to practically press your phone against her nose to see as she types. “Put whatever you want,” she tells you. “Don't gotta go all out or nothin'. You need a hook-up, though, hit me up.”  
She punches in her information as she talks, finishing and holding your phone out to you as you enter your chumhandle into hers.  
”Thanks, T,” you half smile, passing her phone back. She nods, eyes closed, wriggling a bit to get more comfortable while Kai's arms wrap around her leg. You let yourself out quietly. 

The buses aren't too crowded for a Friday. You only have to transfer once, downtown. There's a twenty minute wait and it's a little chilly in just a tee now that the sun has gone down, but you're just the right level of stoned to not be bothered by it. With your earbuds drowning out most of the city chatter, you watch the passing clutches of bar hoppers in a lazy interest and your second bus arrives before you know it.  
A crowd piles off, leaving it gutted as you board. Heading out of downtown around 11 on a Friday night, the bus isn't exactly a popular ride, and you have your pick of seats. You head straight for the back. The engine hums through the moulded plastic, warms you, and you nestle down against a window. Forehead pressed against glass, you watch the lights from traffic, buildings, streetlamps flicker by, letting your mind wander.  
The last time you enjoyed such easy hospitality was visiting Abuelita, the old lady who lived down the street from you and never told anyone her real name. She was the type who looked after strays, yourself included. She had taught you Spanish when you were little, and always made tamales when it was obvious Bro wasn't feeding you, and died two years ago, alone. You'd only found out when they moved her things away and you hadn't talked to anyone for a week. You sigh and clutch your camera a little tighter to your chest, letting your eyes slide shut and easing into a light, half-alert doze. 

_ _ _ 

It's almost midnight when you finally make it back to the apartment. You trudge up endless stairs, having reached a point in coming down where you're mostly just groggy and your head feels cottony. The complex lights are harsh and you squint as you dig your keys out of your pocket. When you turn your key in the deadbolt, you miss the usual resistance it gives when it's locked. You stiffen, hand frozen on the doorknob. 

Between the weed and the company, you had actually managed to put your creepy internet buddy out of mind for the better part of the day. Now, listening to your breath rasping in your ears and feeling your heart drumming against your chest like a caged animal, you're wondering how you ever forgot. You think you might still be just a little too high to deal with any confrontation if he's in there and you can't bring yourself to even enter your own home. You spend nearly five minutes freaking out at your front door before swift footsteps on the stairs jar you to attention. 

“No, just tell them I'll be there in twenty. I don't care, that's what y'all get for telling me at the last minute!”  
As you turn your head toward the source of the noise, a girl in a short, red dress descends the nearby staircase, bickering with her phone. You're glad for your shades, hiding your no doubt startled, wide eyes, but the girl still jumps a little when she sees you looking her direction. She sneers at you, making a dismissive, somewhat repulsed noise, before continuing down the stairs. “What? No, that wasn't about you,” you listen to her voice fade away. 

Not wanting to look any weirder than you already have just standing in the hallway, you force yourself to push open your front door. You slip in without turning your back on the front room, groping along the wall to flick the lights on and locking the door behind you. At first glance, nothing seems out of place. Cal leers down at you from on top of Bro's entertainment system, making you shudder. You inch across the living room, every nerve in your body alert and singing with tension. A quick check in the bathroom finds it empty. You leave the light on in there, move to the kitchen light, the hallway. Satisfied that the rest of the apartment is unoccupied, you move cautiously towards your bedroom. 

You poke your head in, snap on the light. Your movements are jerky and anxious as you scan the room, check behind the door, check inside your closet. Everything seems normal, the apartment empty but for yourself. You release a shaky breath, easing some of the tension from your shoulders. As soon as any sort of immediate threat is gone, you're mad at yourself for freaking out. Bro would be ashamed if he could see you right now, shaking and pissing your pants like you're five. You ball your trembling fists and purse your lips, telling yourself you could've taken him, you've been just waiting for him to show up anyway, you _want_ him to have a go at you. Turning away from your closet and stalking across your room as you silently berate yourself for being such a pussy, everything slams to a full stop when your eyes fall on your bed. 

For a very long time, all you can do is stare. You take in the sight of the little, bundled pile of your dirty underwear, the wet stain soaking the front of your pillow. You understand the implications, but you simply can't react. A shudder finally rolls through you, moving your body at least, and you grimace. Repulsion makes itself known in the thick lump that wells in the back of your throat. With a hard swallow, you move towards your bed. Your boxers, at least, have made it away unscathed, and you knock them off the mattress. The pillow you gingerly lift, however (your _only_ pillow, goddammit!), is another story.  
The reek of semen comes off it, soaked in with the damp stain. A second lump rises in your throat, nausea making you convulse a little as you choke it back down. You try to peel the case back to assess the damage, but the way it stubbornly clings to where the pillow has sopped up most of the jizz tells you all you need to know. With short, agitated movements you cross to your window, yank it open, and fling your pillow out. You watch it sail out into the night with a scowl before drawing another shuddering breath and heading to the bathroom to wash your hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had initially not intended for there to be any trolls in this (humanized or otherwise), but when I needed a few extras, they sort of showed up.
> 
> This chapter still feels a little weak to me (it went through three rewrites, blegh), so I will try to make up for it with the next one!


	8. Chapter 8

anonChum (–) began pestering turntechGodhead (TG)

\--: So, which one of those boys' dicks are you sucking?  
\--: Or do you let them take turns?  
\--: I'm disappointed in you, Dave.  
\--: After everything I've done, you turn around and whore yourself out to the first guys who talk to you.  
\--: You better not tell me you let them gangbang you too.  
\--: You're supposed to be saving that sweet little hole for me.

You wake up Saturday morning with a crick in your neck and this bullshit blowing up your phone. Squinting and glaring at the screen, you type sloppily, still a little disoriented with sleep. 

TG: wow fuck yuo  
TG: i barely know those guys  
TG: also you owe me s fucking pillwow

You rub your face as you sit up and try to massage the kinks out of your neck. Your phone buzzes angrily in your hand. 

\--: You're so easy you'll let a bunch of strangers tag-team you?  
\--: I knew you were a fucking slut, but I didn't think you were that bad.  
TG: i dont see why youre so mad dude  
TG: dont that make your life easier  
\--: You're supposed to be keeping yourself tight for me!  
\--: I never gave you permission to go spreading your legs for the first person that checks out your ass!  
TG: i dont remember ever needing to ask your permission for shit  
TG: you wanna get pissy about who i smoke weed with  
TG: you wanna make shit up in your head about who im supposedly fucking  
TG: thats your fucking issue bro  
TG: and you can go fuck yourself if you think im gonna put up with it first thing when i wake up

You flip your phone over, pop the back off, and pull the battery out angrily. Casting it aside, you launch yourself to your feet, head lightly throbbing. You cross to your closet, pull out your box of Lucky Charms, and have it halfway open before it occurs to you where you got them in the first place. With a sneer of disgust, you fold the box top back up and throw it against the wall. You stomp out to the kitchen, glass in hand, earning you an irate, muffled, “Shut th'fuck up, y'fuckin' brat!” from the direction of the futon.  
Angry and wanting to take it out on something, you bang around the kitchen louder than necessary. When you open the fridge, you let the swords within clatter out noisily onto the floor. You smack a plate against the counter to dish out the nasty, leftover bar food you find and slam the microwave shut to heat it. A woman's voice fuzzily mumbles, “What the fuck?” behind you and you hear the stir of blankets. 

“If I gotta come over there, y'little shit,” Bro's voice is a little clearer and a lot more dangerous. “ 'M gonna make y'wish y'was never born!” 

You ignore him, scowling at the microwave as it hums along. You let the full beep of the timer run out when it's done, bang around more when you retrieve your food and storm back to your room, slamming your door shut behind you. You've barely set your food down when Bro kicks your door back open, boxer-clad and belt in hand. Grabbing one arm, he throws you onto the floor and lays into you, telling you it is too goddamn early for you to be throwing a fucking temper tantrum. By the time he's done, the right side of your face is swollen and your food has gone lukewarm. You spend the rest of Saturday offline, in bed, impotently pissed. 

_ _ _ 

“So, if you got'cherself a sugar daddy, I'm thinkin' I'm gonna have'ta start chargin' rent!”  
Bro's voice in your doorway startles you. It's Sunday, and for the past two hours you've been distracting Egbert from packing for some week-long school trip. You turn your head slowly to glower at him. 

“What the fuck are you talking a-” the sight of another nondescript box in Bro's hand makes you stop mid-sentence. This one he's already sliced open and a cold weight settles in your stomach. Bro makes an exaggerated show of peering into the box, taunting you with his superior knowledge of its contents. 

“Gotta say, I'm pretty su'prised anyone'd even want'cher skinny ass,” he muses, rifling through the box just to see you squirm. You grit your teeth and try to keep your face straight – you're not looking to get your ass beat two days in a row.  
”Either he's real fuckin' homely,” Bro smirks, “Or you give some real good head.” 

Your stomach gives a little turn and you purse your lips, trying to school your face so as not to glare at him as hard as you wish you could right now.  
”What d'you care?” you ask, forcing your voice into an even tone. Bro moves into your room, paces towards you until he's standing uncomfortably close. He sets the open package on your desk as almost an afterthought and you grip the edges of your seat. Hands sweating, you resolutely keep your face turned forward, not looking into his. 

“Maybe I care 'bout what my little bro's up to,” he says calmly, with just the slightest edge of menace. “Maybe I'm curious why, if he's got someone takin' care'a him, I'm still here lookin' out for him. Maybe I'm wonderin' if he's getting' greedy – if he's playin' me.”  
You swallow, mouth gone dry. “It ain't like that, Bro,” you manage to croak. Bro braces a hand on your desk as he leans down even further into your personal space.  
”What's it like, then?” 

There has to be some way to explain your way out of this. You know there has to be. There has to be some alternative to just coming out and spilling everything to Bro. You lick your lips and blink behind your shades, trying desperately to think while your brother looms over you. 

“You gonna answer me when I ask you a question or do I gotta set you straight?” he growls.  
”It- It's nothin',” you stammer lamely, wincing at how pathetic you sound. “It's just a couple'a presents – just this guy who likes me. I met him at the skate park.”  
It's only a half-lie, if you think about it. Bro straightens, taking a deep breath through his nose. He steps back a bit. Just as the slightest measure of tension eases from your shoulders, he smacks the back of your head lightly. 

“You're a shit liar, y'know that, little dude?” he sneers. You flinch a little. “Y'don't wanna talk about who's stickin' it t'ya, fine – I don't exactly wanna hear 'bout it neither. Y'all better believe I mean it when I say your ass is outta here if I get wind'a you bein' kept, though. Lookin' after a lazy bum like you ain't exactly cheap, y'know.”  
You nod stiffly and Bro turns away. Before leaving your side, he plucks a packing peanut from inside the box and flicks it at your chest.  
”Have fun, kiddo,” he smirks, swaggering out of your room. Once you hear him settle down in the living room, you release a shaky breath. 

GT: dave.  
GT: dave.  
GT: hey.  
GT: dude.  
GT: i could be packing right now if you're just going to ignore me.  
GT: hey, jerkbutt!

You shake yourself again, turning your attention back to your computer. 

TG: sorry man  
TG: bro was giving me shit  
GT: oh.  
GT: well, that's dumb.  
GT: tell him he's dumb.  
GT: wait no!  
GT: then he might not let you come up!

A warm smile sneaks onto your face. There's a little over three weeks until John and his dad are due down in Texas, but you're not counting the 26 days until then or anything. You eye the box on your desk again with a slightly concerned look. 

TG: dude  
TG: hes not gonna stop me  
TG: trust me  
TG: he'd love to have me out of his hair for three months  
GT: uh.  
GT: you did tell him, right?  
TG: of course i did  
TG: dont worry about it man

You look away from the monitor, reinforcing your indifferent front in chat with a reflection of it in real life. With two fingers, you pull down one flap of the opened box. Amidst the packing peanuts, the edge of thin, plastic packaging juts out. You frown in piqued curiosity. 

GT: okay, but  
GT: like  
GT: you better not be lying.  
GT: it would be REALLY awkward if we got there and he wasn't cool with it.  
GT: and kinda a waste of time.  
TG: chill man  
TG: i got this under control  
TG: i asked  
TG: he could give two shits what i do

The mystery of the box's contents prods at you while you type. Between texts your eyes dart over to it. With a sigh, you slump a little. 

TG: so hey though  
TG: i gotta go for a bit bro  
TG: something came up  
GT: heheheh.  
TG: what  
TG: you thinking about my pocket sausage egbert  
TG: want me to stay on and tell you about it  
TG: cuz for real  
TG: its so fucking big dude  
TG: like trying to arm wrestle a baby every time i jerk off  
TG: didn't you know  
TG: thats why i switched teams  
TG: need some serious manpower to heft this shit  
GT: it's gonna be funny when you get here and it turns out your dick matches the rest of your lovely prepubescent physique.  
TG: ouch  
TG: harsh man  
TG: so thats why im coming up huh  
TG: to compare pork swords  
TG: take it from a professional bro  
TG: thats pretty gay  
GT: what, no!  
GT: gross, dude, that's not why!  
GT: shut up.  
TG: youre the one that brought it up  
TG: heh  
GT: okay, gosh, i get it!  
GT: go fucking spank it or whatever.  
GT: just spare me the gory details!  
TG: get back on later this evening k  
GT: well, yeah, duh.

turntechGodhead (TG) ceased pestering ghostyTrickster (GT)

You lean back from your computer with a chagrined, half-smile. It's always a little disappointing when John goes into “Gross! Gross! No homo!” Mode, but you've gotten used to it by now. A little over two years ago, when he'd interrupted an especially unabashed flow of playfully hitting on him with a completely serious, 

okay but, like...dave, you're not actually gay are you?

you had answered honestly. He had taken long enough to respond that you were actually starting to worry you'd ruined your relationship with him, but eventually he had decided it was fine. He made you promise to not try and touch his butt, and you told him it was too late, you'd already booked plane tickets for that express purpose. The small lump that had risen in the back of your throat at his unwitting but nonetheless explicit rejection was easily ignored and quickly swallowed by the conversation you two picked right back up. By now, the one-sided nature of your attraction to him has simply become a slightly tender spot into which John only occasionally, accidentally jabs his metaphorical elbow. 

Your eyes land back on the box on your desk. With a sigh, you reach for it and grab one of the flaps. When you lift it, you find it surprisingly heavier than the first, and you squint suspiciously as you pull the box into your lap. One tug on the single visible corner of molded, factory-sealed plastic sends a cascade of packing peanuts over your legs and to the floor. The mess is disregarded entirely as you stare at the item in your hand. 

It's heavy. It's plain black with a dull, plastic sheen. It's flanged on one end, a base that flutes into the wide bottom of a tapering, round-edged cone. The packaging tells you “batteries not included” and oh god why, _why_ does the brand name have to have “Rump” in it? Letting out a shaky breath, you turn it over to read the back, but you're honestly a little too stunned to actually absorb things like “base diameter,” and “insertable length.” A coiled cord connects it to the little rectangular controller that's sealed in with it, and it occurs to you, distantly, that this is what those batteries on Thursday were for.  
Absentmindedly, you set aside the brown box. A rattle when you place the package on your desk recalls your attention and you tilt it, pulling out a second item. It's an 8 ounce bottle of lube. Of course. Obviously, it's just bad manners to not include lube when you send the teenage boy you met on the internet a vibrating butt plug.  
You look from the bottle in one hand to the packaged toy in the other. You half wonder if this is some bizarre means of apology for being a dick to you yesterday, before reminding yourself that the guy gave you the batteries for this last Thursday. The words touting the plug's praises are still a bit of a blur to you as you study the thing, curiously considering the size, thinking on whether or not it might fit you. The small end is no thicker than your thumb, but the taper is steep, and the base definitely wider than anything you've tried with your fingers. The plastic surface looks smooth, though, and with the right amount of lubrication and some patience you could probably- 

The freakishness if this whole situation slams that train of thought to a full stop, even as your dick gives an interested twitch in your pants. Thoroughly weirded out by the fact that you have just been anonymously gifted a sex toy, you get to your feet. You turn to your bed, setting the plug and the bottle of lube on your sheets neatly, then turn back around and walk out of your room. Ignoring Bro just as much as he's ignoring you, you head for the bathroom, locking yourself in. It won't keep him out – you learned that when you were ten and tried to hide behind it from getting whupped for pissing your bed. It does, however, reinforce the idea that you're showering, and showering is definitely one thing your brother won't fuck with. 

You push one sleeve of your t-shirt up and reach into the shower to turn it on. Quietly, you close the shower door before putting the lid down on the toilet and taking a seat. You have to do a little uncomfortable fidgeting to maneuver your half-hard dick out of the way so you can put your feet up on the frosted glass next to you. With bare soles on the cool surface, you wrap your arms under your thighs and rest your face on your knees, letting out a long sigh as you try to will away your erection and the panicking tightness in your chest.  
For a long time, you sit in silence, listening to the hiss of the showerhead, the sound of water hitting tiles. In the front room you hear Bro's phone, the put-upon, condescending tone of his conversation. His footsteps move around the living room, his keys jingle, the front door slams. You raise your head, propping your chin on your knees, and watch the patterns the water makes against the opaque shower door. Ten minutes pass before you hear a faint message alert from your phone in the other room. Your stomach drops out just barely and you inhale deeply through your nose. You take another couple of minutes to collect yourself.  
Satisfied that you no longer feel the urge to flip out, you uncurl. Getting to your feet and popping your back, you shut off the shower and let yourself out of the bathroom. Bro's gone. Judging from his tone on the phone, he's probably running a delivery, which puts him out of the apartment for at least an hour. Probably longer, since it's late enough for rush hour and there's always the chance of Bro insisting on a little extra for making a house call. With a fair amount of trepidation, you return to your room.

The toy and the lube lay taunting you on your bed. You keep your eyes fixed on them as you take a seat halfway across the room at your computer. The only thing that draws your attention away is the new email notification. Your gaze darts back and forth, from your bed to your phone, as the message loads. It's from yet another dummy account, subjectless. 

         Dave,  
      I'm sorry that you were upset yesterday. I may have seemed a little  
      forceful, but you must understand how important it is that you stay  
      pure for me. I only want the best for you, and the thought of someone  
      else using you is infuriating. I understand, however, that you are  
      probably still mad at me, and will give you some time to calm down.  
      With your brother away from home, however, might I suggest you try  
      out your new gift? I'm sure you'll enjoy itand it will be great practice  
      for when I see you next.  
                     Take care. 

You bite your lower lip when you read the last line. Nigh instantly, your brain kicks into gear at the suggestion that the man intends to make a move on you in the near future. You think about how you might react, if you should put up a fight or just let him have his way; you try to speculate when he might come, why he's not showing up right now. Your prick jumps, just as your mind turns to the possibility of actually getting fucked within the next week and your eyes fall back on your bed. Worrying your lip, you regard the toy. 

He wants you to be ready for him. Not only does he want you to be ready for him but, despite the anxiety that's been gnawing at you for over a week, you want to be ready for him as well. You want to wake up to someone pinning you to your bed and be able to spread your legs and let him fuck you. You want a taste of what having someone inside you might feel like. 

Dick pulling the front of your pants and the silk around it tight, you hurry out into the living room to grab a pair of scissors from Bro's workstation. You close your bedroom door behind you quickly on your return, casting about for the unopened pack of batteries. You toss both them and the scissors onto the bed beside the plug and stand at the edge, fingers flying deftly over the button and zipper of your jeans. In one fluid movement, you step out of each leg to kneel on your bed. Your breath picks up and your cock throbs to remind you how excited you are as you cut through the plastic packaging. You sit back on your heels to place the scissors and discarded waste on the floor before focusing your attention squarely on the toy in your hand. 

Its black surface gleams dully with light caught from your overhead. It has a bit of a rubbery give instead of the hard plastic you were expecting, which eases your mind a little. The length doesn't intimidate you – all in all, it stops a knuckle or so short of the full length of your hand – but you're still a little wary of the wide end before the fluted base.  
Swallowing despite your dry mouth, you trail the fingers of your other hand along the cord dangling from it until you come to the controller. You examine the small knob, the different settings that would probably mean more to you if you had read the packaging, before setting it all aside in favour of opening the pack of batteries. You waste no time in loading up the remote, taking the toy back in hand and switching it on.  
The rumbling buzz that comes out of the thing makes you start in surprise and your prick throb a little in anticipation. It seems impossibly loud in the silence of your apartment, a completely irrational part of you insisting that everyone in the building must be able to hear it, and you switch the vibration back off quickly. You rub yourself consolingly through the front of your boxers, the slide of silk on your flushed skin still enough to make you ache, before an idea strikes you. Biting your lip, you turn the toy back on and lower it to your clothed erection. 

Shuddering pleasure rolls through you as cool, soft, humming pressure rubs the length of your dick. Your breath stutters in your throat and your hips buck, overwhelmed by the tremors that drag along one side of your prick, frustrated that they're not enveloping you. Pushing back up into a kneel, you shove your boxers down to your knees, shuffling out of them before sitting back down on your splayed legs and thrusting the toy between them. The base of the plug thrums against the underside of your cock as the tip presses into your sack, sending vibrations through your balls. A tingling rush shoots up your spine. Your eyes roll back as your mouth drops open and you fall onto your side with a loud groan, dick drooling precum. Rolling onto your back, you spread your legs, playing the vibe over your balls. Your hips thrust, cock bouncing as you fuck air, and your other hand clutches the remote it still holds, fingers curling into your sheets.  
Gasping for air, you let your head loll and stare down the length of your body. Your cock is impossibly hard, flushed deep red. It bobs a little with every cant of your hips, a string of precum trailing with it from where its leaking onto your belly. The muscles in your thighs, too, flex with the motion. The sight of them, spread and raised, legs bent at the knee, and the groan that rushes past your lips when you press against your taint, makes you feel slutty and fuckable and so fucking amazing, all at once. 

The pressure of the plug against your sack and your taint sends vibrations through your crotch, making you quickly impatient to find out what it would feel like inside you. Dropping the controller, you fumble for the bottle of lube, easing the buzzing toy away from your body with a long, slow stroke over your balls and up the length of your cock. With the cap popped on the bottle in one hand and the vibe humming happily away in the other, you find yourself faced with the brief conundrum of how to get the thing lubed up without making a mess. You end up deciding to just squirt some lube out over the toy, figuring that, since you're on your back, if anything runs off it will just land on your chest. Still, you move quickly to keep too much from drizzling onto your shirt, casting aside the bottle and curling your fingers around the plug. As you slick it, the feel of wet plastic under your palm eases your nerves a little about using something thicker than just your fingers on yourself. You exhale a bit more tension once you decide it's ready, curling your lube-slick fingers around your neglected cock and giving it a few conciliatory tugs. Your hips rock into the gesture slightly and you lift them to slip your other hand under yourself, pressing the tip of the plug up against your entrance.  
Your hole twitches just slightly at the sensation pulsating against it. You squeeze your cock in response and tuck your lower lip under your upper, swallowing a groan as you push forward. It's not much different, at first, than fingering yourself. The vibration has the odd effect of making your muscles both spasm and relax in alternation, and you go slowly, savouring the feeling of being filled. After the first inch and a half or so, however, you definitely start to feel the difference. The toy begins pushing deeper than you've ever managed with your fingers, its thrumming easing ever closer to your prostate, while its taper makes itself known in the slightly uncomfortable, but nevertheless arousing stretch at your entrance.  
About halfway in you have to stop, your panting breath harsh in your ears. You suck in deep breaths, hitching every time the constant throb of the vibrator prompts your prostate to send a flush of pleasure up your spine. Swallowing, you wait a moment to enjoy the feel of your first ring of muscle fluttering and squeezing around the intrusion stretching it wide open. Your opposite hand idly strokes your dick, half-soft from overstimulation and the minor discomfort of being penetrated. 

The drag of your still-wet palm over your heated skin makes you rock your hips a bit, and you gasp when the motion pushes the toy a little further into your body. With another moan, you keep going. Your breath comes shallow and fast at the feeling of being filled and stretched, of vibrations pulsing over your spot, humming inside you, making your legs shake. You let your head fall back, cant your hips forward, keep slowly, steadily pushing into yourself until you feel the inward curve of the bottom of the plug. For a brief moment you're a little blown away by actually being able to feel the shape of the object inside you, before, quicker than you expected, you feel your hole wrap and tighten around the toy. A guttural sound, somewhere between a ground and a grunt, expels itself from the back of your throat and you buck your hips. The flanged base settles against your perineum, keeping the plug nestled safely inside you, buzzing on. You let your hand fall away from it, hips rolling in a constant, excited squirm, the right twist occasionally sending a surge of arousal straight to the back of your neck and the tip of your cock.  
Stroking, squeezing, pulling, your prick swells in your hand, heavy and throbbing with heat. The skin below your navel is sticky with its constant drool of precum. You interject your tugging with an occasional tightening around the base of your cock, clenching your fingers in a firm circle as you ride out each new surge of pleasure, edging yourself up close to cumming and easing back down into a desperately panting, writhing mess. Your free hand traces the cord connecting the plug stuffed inside your body to its remote and you clasp it, holding your thumb over the dial on its face. Biting your lip, you take a deep breath and slide it up quickly. 

Your spine arches, taut as a bow, and your head jerks back, eyes screwed up tight. A shout breaks from your throat, even as you try to gasp it back down. The throb of the plug buried in you drums against your prostate, against your tightening balls, and you let your hand release your cock, shoving your shirt up to claw at your collarbone as your mindlessly hump the empty space above you. Each buck jolts the toy inside you, thrusting it against the walls of muscle already convulsing around it. Cum splatters your chest and your fingers curl into your sheets and your skin as your mouth hangs open in a second, silent cry of pleasure. Your hips jerk, rocking the plug against your spot each time, milking it. A deep, hoarse groan finally rattles past your lips. 

Even after the full brunt of your orgasm has rolled over you, the toy keeps vibrating. Overstimulated and hypersensitive, the sensation makes you moan incoherently and twitch, fingers scrabbling for the remote to shut it off. Jizz trickles down your side from where it hit your chest, but your eyes are heavy, your limbs are heavy. You can't even be bothered to think, much less act, and you end up falling asleep with the dormant plug still inside you.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who thought or was hoping this would end well, I suggest you bail now.
> 
> Additional notes and a second scan for typos forthcoming once sleep is had.

You wake up Monday morning laying on your belly, dry-humping your mattress with an achingly hard erection. In fact, there's a lot of aching going on in that general region, as well as a mildly uncomfortable fullness and intermittent shivers of lust. It takes a moment until you're a little more awake to realise you've still got a rubber plug stuffed up your ass, but when you do you groan into your pillow and fuck your bed a bit harder. The motion grinds your cock against your stomach and digs the toy back and forth into your already tender inner muscles. You have no idea how long you've been rutting in your sleep already, but it's enough that when you grope around, find the remote and switch it on, all you need is the lowest setting to make you groan raw and blow your load into your sheets. Moaning incoherently, contentedly, you spend several minutes rubbing your softening prick into soggy cotton and your own, warm semen as the toy whirs inside your throbbing hole. When you do finally manage to collect yourself enough to pull it out, the plug comes out with a wet, almost sucking sound, and leaves you feeling stretched and empty.

Memories of how the toy felt distract you all day, as you try to occupy your time on the internet, as you hear Bro come in and out of the apartment. You give in, finally, mid-afternoon, when you check your email for the third time. You kept the message that John sent to call you a butthead for not being online to say goodbye last night and to tell you he'll talk to you in a week, deleting everything else. Below it, a new, anonymous entry has shown up, paired with a video attachment. With nothing better to do, you open it up, and before long you're sitting with your legs splayed and your new toy buzzing inside you. As you shallowly thrust into your hand, your hips snap in time with the blonde boy on your monitor riding his partner, arms trussed up above his head.  
You get off twice more with the vibrator on Tuesday. The first time, you tell yourself you'll see if you can go an hour plugged, only to end up fifteen minutes later kneeling on the edge of your bed, jerking off desperately. You put on one of your Asian twink videos the second time around, one starring a shaggy-haired boy who almost looks like John if you squint just right. As his hips roll slow, powerful strokes into his co-star, your carefully play with pumping the toy in and out of your body, hissing and gasping as, with each thrust, you feel your hole being spread open and closing back around the wide base of the plug. 

When you return from washing your hands in the bathroom, you find a new pesterchum window has popped up. A single line of violet text lies in wait below the usual automatic chat opener and your stomach sinks. Hesitantly, you sit back down at your computer. 

tentacleTherapist (TT) began pestering turntechGodhead (TG)

TT: What's going on?  
TG: oh hey sup  
TG: not much  
TG: how you doin rose  
TT: I'm well.  
TT: But you're not.  
TT: So I'll ask you again: What's going on?

The cold feeling of being caught doing something you shouldn't settles into your gut. You swallow and take a deep breath, trying to think of an excuse that will fool her. It's unusual for Rose to be this direct. Normally, when you've got shit to deal with, you find yourself sort of drifting into conversation with her. She's never come out and straight-up confronted you about your problems. 

TT: Thirty seconds, Strider.  
TT: The last time you went that long without saying anything in chat was when we were thirteen and you had convinced yourself that John and I were going to hate you for being gay.  
TT: I know something is wrong.  
TT: Even when you're avoiding talking to me, you are at least keeping your YouTube channel up to date.  
TT: I know how much you enjoy the attention you get there, and you haven't posted anything in over two weeks.

You rub the bruised side of your face, realising it has been a while. In the past, getting your ass beat was a two or three times a week thing. Bro also usually kept it below the neck, usually just spanked you with his belt. You think maybe having someone interested in you has been going to your head. You've definitely been acting up the past two weeks, been giving Bro plenty of reasons to put you back in your place. 

TT: Not to mention, when you do avoid me as deliberately as you have been, it invariably means you think you have something to hide.  
TT: I know you feel the need to remain a pretty private person, Strider, but I would hate for you to feel like you can't come to me for help.  
TT: I am your friend, you know.  
TT: I do care about your well-being.

You look down at your still hands resting on your keyboard. Lalonde's powers of guilt-tripping are as sharp as usual. She always knows how to make you feel like an asshole for not spilling your innermost secrets to her. With a sigh, you answer her. 

TG: its not a big deal lalonde  
TG: were big kids now  
TG: i can handle my shit  
TT: So it is your brother.

God _damn_ , how is that girl so perceptive? Still, maybe if you distract her with Bro, you won't have to bring up your stalker. 

TG: its nothing im not used to okay  
TG: ive just been getting on his bad side lately  
TT: Is he sexually abusing you?  
TG: what  
TG: NO  
TG: jesus  
TG: why does everyone think that  
TT: Someone else has been asking about your home life?  
TT: Who?  
TG: no one  
TT: Are you sure?  
TG: yes  
TT:So your brother has been strictly physically abusing you?  
TG: yes!  
TG: fuck  
TG: no  
TG: i didnt say that  
TG: forget i said that  
TG: its not a big deal okay rose  
TG: he just  
TG: sometimes i act like a shit and he sets me straight  
TG: its really not a problem  
TT: Dave, I know you're smart enough to know that what you just said was complete bullshit.  
TT: Nothing you do gives him the right to hurt you.

Your fingers slide off the keyboard and fall into your lap. You turn your hands over to look at your palms. Intellectually, objectively, you know that Rose is right – she's always right. But that doesn't stop you from rationalising, from justifying the bruises on your face and the rugburn on your side by telling yourself that it was your fault for pissing Bro off. It's always your fault – for not listening, for backtalking, for stealing from him, for just generally being a disobedient little asshole. It's always been your fault, even when you were too little to understand why. You sigh again and look back up at the monitor. 

TT: That's why you haven't been on YouTube, isn't it?  
TT: You have injuries you don't want people to see.  
TG: yeah  
TT: Do you need somewhere to stay?  
TG: what  
TT: I know John is due to pick you up at the end of the month because he won't shut up about it, but do you need a safe place to go until then?  
TT: There's a youth shelter on the other side of downtown from you.  
TT: They're a Christian organisation, but they do walk-in intake.

Shame-fuelled anger stirs in your chest. You frown and glare at the lines of bright text on your screen. 

TG: rose for fucks sake  
TG: im not some battered housewife or some shit  
TT: You're not speaking with your friends and you're refraining from exposing your face to avoid revealing any signs of domestic abuse.  
TT: I fail to see the difference.  
TG: okay but  
TG: no  
TG: im fine  
TG: its fine  
TG: everythings fine  
TT: Your powers of persuasion are immaculate as usual, Dave.  
TT: I am now thoroughly convinced by your argument.  
TT: Of course,  
TT: How could I have ever thought that the physical assault of someone dear to me by his sole guardian was anything but the picture of normalcy.

She's not helping. Or rather, she is, but you don't want her help right now. Not yet. You can't deal with it. You've been doing just fine with getting beat up, and being talked down to, and feeling shitty and fucked-up, because the alternative is taking a hard look at your life and knowing that there's no way out. And you can't handle that. 

TG: dont do this rose  
TG: dont give me that snarky sarcastic god dave youre so stupid whats wrong with you bullshit  
TT: I never said you were stupid, Dave.  
TT: Nor will I ever.  
TG: whatever  
TG: just leave it alone  
TG: okay lalonde  
TG: its not your business  
TT: You want me to stand idly by while my friend's brother abuses him?  
TG: hes not fucking abusing me okay  
TG: this isnt some fucking lifetime special  
TG: ive just got alot on my plate right now and i keep being a brat cuz of it  
TG: itll work out okay  
TG: i dont need your help  
TT: So there is something else going on.  
TG: i didnt say that  
TT: You inferred it.  
TG: whatever  
TG: look just leave it alone  
TG: okay  
TG: please  
TG: shits under control  
TG: i dont need your help  
TT: Dave.  
TG: rose  
TT: If you truly are not willing to accept help, I cannot exactly force it upon you.  
TT: But I at least want you to know that there are alternatives to your situation.  
TG: yeah okay whatever  
TT: Also, I want you to tell me if something changes.  
TT: Please?  
TG: yeah fine  
TT: I'm serious.  
TG: OKAY  
TT: You don't have to do this alone.  
TT: Take care of yourself, Dave.  
TG: i will lalonde jesus  
TT: I'll talk to you later  
TG: yeah okay

tentacleTherapist (TT) ceased pestering turntechGodhead (TG)

When your conversation ends, you find yourself feeling shitty and stupid. It's strong enough to make you damn the consequences, and you head out into the living room to dig up Bro's stash. You hole yourself up in your room and spend the rest of the evening on your computer, logged out of pesterchum, stoned and watching cartoons. 

_ _ _ 

Bro leaves for his new Wednesday gig around 6 the next evening.  
”Pizza's in the fridge!” is the closest you get to a goodbye before the front door slams and you've got the apartment to yourself for the next nine-plus hours. You heat up a couple slices in the microwave, munching on one as you head back down the hall, considering how you're going to kill your night. With your dinner balanced on your stomach, you dick around on the internet, clear out your YouTube and email messages. Mr. Cyberstalker only sent you one message today, a shocking new development, really, but you're not in the mood and delete it without reading it. John and Jade are both offline – John's off on his school trip and fuck if you know what trouble Jade's up to. You don't really feel like talking to Rose after yesterday, but she's idle anyway.  
You brush the last traces of dinner of your bare chest, setting the plate on your desk as you stand. Summer has finally dug its merciless claws into the city and your can't really bring yourself to don more than boxers. The heat makes you sluggish, but boredom has you restless. You consider jerking it, but the temperature in the apartment makes even that an unappealing prospect, at least while the sun's still out.  
You end up deciding to work on a couple track. A pair of headphones over your ears, your fans ad your back, and your tables under your hands sounds like the perfect distraction from the weather. Sure, the weak breeze your shitty fans generate may only cool the drops of sweat that run down your spine, but the process of mixing, cutting, tweaking, reworking is engrossing enough to help you lose yourself for hours in the sound of your own music. 

The sun has gone down by the time your grumbling stomach lifts you from your reverie. You check the clock by your bed – quarter after 10 – and decide you might as well eat the last of the pizza. The air in your room is stuffy, humid. You slide your window open to let out some of the stale air and for a moment you just stand there, basking in the cool breeze on your bare chest. City sounds waft in on the night air – engines and car horns; the occasional burst of laughter or chattering voices at street level. The thumping bass of a car stereo Dopplers by under your window and somewhere in the complex across the way a couple is fighting, someone has their TV up too loud. You stare out at the lights of downtown in the distance for a moment longer before turning away.  
As you make your way down the darkened hallway to the kitchen, you slide your fingers lightly along the wall to guide yourself. You flick on the kitchen light, dodge cheap weaponry, dig your pizza out of the fridge, all with nonchalant ease. Your skin feels a little grody and you consider showering as you toss another pair of slices into the microwave. Standing and watching the time, you scratch the back of your head, crack your neck, yawn. 

The only warning you get is a trace of reflected movement on the face of the microwave and you're too slow to react. A hand claps over your mouth, another wraps around you mid-torso, pinning your arm to your side. Your immediate instinct is to thrash, giving a startled shout that ends up muffled, bucking and struggling. The person behind you pushes you forward, trapping your between their body and the counter. You feel the bulge of a half-formed erection dig into your back and your head is yanked back against a broad shoulder. A cheek presses into your hair and lips brush the shell of your ear. 

“It's okay, Dave, it's only me.” 

You suck a sharp breath through your nose, freezing, your free fingers stilling where they've been clawing at the hand over your mouth. A pang of lust conflicts with a shudder of fear. This is happening, you wanted it to happen, you're not sure if you want it to happen, doesn't matter it's already happening. You hear a long inhale in your hair, feel hot breath wash over your neck, catch the faintest scent of sugary cinnamon. The hand at your middle slides down your body, cups you through the front of your boxers. 

“I'm glad you liked my present,” the voice in your ear gloats as your breath hitches. Silk glides over your junk under his touch and it occurs to you just what you're wearing, how little you're wearing. “Did you have a chance to try out your other gift yet?”  
A groan slips out of your throat as you remember the feel of the toy thrumming inside you. He chuckles deep in his chest and your dick twitches as he kneads you through your boxers.  
”Yeah, I bet you _loved_ it, you little slut,” the harsh cut he adds to his last word sends another shivering pulse of terror through you, even as it makes you jerk your hips back against him. He gives you a rough, approving hum, squeezing your half-hard dick and grinding his own erection against your backside.  
”I hope you didn't wear yourself out too much,” he continues. “I still expect a nice, tight, virgin hole for me to fuck open.” 

The most pathetic, embarrassing whimper of a moan escapes you as his mouth fastens on the curve of your neck, biting you roughly. A wave of fear and lust washes over you and your legs buckle. He catches your fall, arm returning to your waist, bracing your head against his should with the other.  
”Don't be like that, don't be like that,” he pants quickly in your ear as he picks you back up. You can hear the excitement in his voice and it makes you breathe faster. “Don't worry, kid, I'll be _real_ nice to ya.”  
He lifts your skinny, 5'4”, 102 pound frame easily. “I'm gonna make you feel real good,” he tells you, and for one horrifying moment you think he's just going to bend you over the kitchen counter and fuck you. The thought makes you throb and you moan against his hand. With another chuckle, he picks you all the way up off your feet and carries you out of the kitchen. 

Halfway down the hall to your room, some sort of panicked survival instinct boots back up and you start thrashing in his arms again. You kick your legs, nearly sending the two of you off-balance, and he grunts in frustration. You get slammed into the closest wall and the hand at your waist drops to roughly clench your dick. 

“Come on now,” his voice is light but dangerous. “Don't be makin' this hard on yourself.” He gives a few, sharp tugs to your stiff, clothed erection. “We both know you want this.”  
You groan against his hand, eyes fluttering shut as the slightly painful chafe of him jerking you makes your body shake with need. Your trembling earns you another hum of approval and he shifts you up a bit, just enough to rub the bulge of his cock into the cleft of your ass. He's thick and you grind back against him, panting in anticipation.  
”Poor, slutty little virgin,” his voice is thick in your ear, heavy with arousal. “You're just begging to be fucked, aren't you?” When his hand slips through the front of your boxers, your spine goes rigid at the skin on skin contact. “Maybe I should just give it to you here. You'd like me fucking you into the wall like a cheap whore, wouldn't you?”  
Ignoring your previous fantasies about just such a scenario, you shake your head in his grip. You can see your bedroom door just out of the corner of your eye and the last thing you want is Bro coming home early to the sight of some stranger pounding you in the hallway. The man fondles your balls, pulling another groan from you, and you feel his smile against your scalp. 

He lifts you away from the wall and closes the distance to your room. There's a pause in the doorway as he keeps you secured only by the hand on your face, using the other to switch off your light. A combination of fear of retaliation and desire for what he intends to do to you keeps you pinned to his chest more effectively than his loose hold. He leans down to speak softly into your ear again.  
”Now, I sure wanna hear that pretty voice of yours, but I don't wanna hear it calling for help, understand?”  
You nod in his grip and then, easy as that, he removes his hand from your mouth. You shudder and gasp. His fingers trail over one bare shoulder, trace your spine down the length of your neck. The heat of his body and the insistent hardness of his prick still press against your back, but you realise in an instant that there is nothing holding you back. You could easily flash step away, grab a sword, subdue this guy or even fuck him up. But he's right. You don't want to. The only thing restraining you is your flushed, excited body, begging for his dick. 

The man behind you makes an almost incredulous noise. It makes you jump, confuses you. Was he expecting you to fight back? Call for help? Run away? Did he want you to? Was he giving you an opening to escape so he could recapture you, force you down, hold you struggling beneath him? The thought makes your cock ache.  
His hand twists in your hair, wrenching your head to expose your neck as he leans down, biting harder than before and drawing out a startled cry. You feel him grin against your skin before pressing his face to the side of your head, lips on your ear and fingers harshly yanking your hair. 

“You really do want it bad, don't you, you fucking slut?” his voice is rough, gloating, yet tinged with something almost like disappointment. “Is this how you like it? Leading men on until they make you spread your whore legs for them?” He shoves his hand between your thighs for emphasis, making you jump and rock your hips back against him. He lets out a groaning laugh, pulling his hand back and slapping your ass. You gasp.  
”How many times have you done this before, you lying tramp?” he demands. He twists your hair and you hear the rushed jingle of a belt being undone. “How many men have you already let have their fun with your nasty hole?”  
He bites your earlobe and you shudder at the sound of him opening his pants. His hand moves back to squeeze your ass, palm covering one cheek entirely and thumb sweeping down your crack.  
”Answer me, you fucking slut,” he hisses, his dangerous undertone instantly making you gasp, “None!”  
He spanks you again and growls, “Don't fucking lie to me!”  
”No, I've never-” you pant. "I haven't- I'm still a virgin!” 

It galls you how desperate, how uncool you sound, but your reward is a throaty chuckle that goes straight to your prick. Fingers twist and curl in your hair and the hand on your ass gives it a loving squeeze. The man pulls back, removing his palm from your rear. His fingers stay in your hair and you hear the soft sounds of him jerking off.  
”So I'm supposed to believe,” his voice is breathless, heady as he speaks, “that the reason you keep presenting that cute little ass'a yours to me like a bitch in heat,” his hand slides down to grip the back of your neck as his breathing gets heavier, “is your daddy's been keeping you cooped up in here and you're just that eager to finally get a cock in you?”  
He finishes his sentence by pushing back up against you. His bare erection rubs against your lower back and you arch your hips into him with a groan and a frantic nod. Both his arms wrap around your chest in a possessive, almost tender gesture that halts your breath. You try to turn in his grasp, but he hooks an arm around your throat before you can. 

“Why don't you show me how bad you want it?” he pants, pinning your shoulders back against his chest. You freeze up in indecision. You had never planned on having to engage; you'd thought he would just force you down and use you to get off. You weren't counting on the idea that me might want you actively participating, much less taking any sort of initiative.  
Your trepidation, however, is assuaged when he pushes you out of the doorway. Keeping his arm around your throat and his body mostly pressed against yours, he walks you across your room. When your shins come to a stop against your mattress, your breath picks up again. A thought comes to you that if you were breathing any harder, you would be hyperventilating. 

“Get on your knees." 

You comply shakily, crawling onto your bed with an arm around your neck to keep you upright. A part of your brain is still flipping the fuck out, trying to get it through to the rest of you that this is the worst possible scenario. You are about to be raped. There is a complete stranger in your bedroom and he is about to rape you. You have no idea what his intentions are other than to fuck you and you're not even trying to fight back. This is your first sexual encounter and it's going to be with some guy who tracked you down off the internet and forced you into it.  
Yet, even these sirens and warning bells only add to your desperate, growing arousal. You bite your lower lip and clench your eyes shut, wondering how you turned out so wrong, so broken. A hand smacks your ass, making your spine stiff and your breath hitch. The arm around your throat moves and then there's a hand clutching the nape of your neck again. You suck in an almost sobbing breath when it forces you down, bending you over until your face is shoved into your mattress and your ass is sticking up in the air. Your boxers are wrenched down and you really do feel like an animal when the only response your body gives is a backwards thrust of your hips and a needy groan. 

Hands dig into your ass cheeks, spreading them wide and exposing you. A shocked cry escapes you when you feel the wetness of a tongue swipe up your taint to your asshole, lips closing around it and coming off you with a suckling pop. A second lick ends with wet muscle squirming and lapping at your entrance. You let out a loud groan, nearly falling over at the feeling of your hole being prodded and slicked. You're caught by an arm around your hips, hissing and panting when teeth sink into the flesh of one asscheek.  
The sound of a self-satisfied chuckle makes you push your hips back, silently begging for more. Instead of lips or tongue, however, you're rewarded with a thick, rough finger shoving into you. The saliva cooling around your entrance isn't nearly enough to accommodate the intrusion, and a stilted, high-pitched sound squeezes out of your throat as pain spikes up your spine. The man curls over you, pressing his cheek between your shoulderblades as he grips your hips tighter and forces his finger further into your body. 

“Oh, you even cry like a virgin,” he sighs, pumping his finger in and out of you. “You're just gonna be so nice and tight around my cock, aren't you?”  
You answer him with an incoherent moan. The raw, burning feeling of his finger inside your body has pretty effectively killed your boner, yet the occasional brush or press that chances against your prostate threatens to send your dick jumping back to life. It doesn't, however, stop your body from trying to crawl away from the source of the discomfort. Your fingers clutch the sheets above your head tightly and the hold on your waist shifts to dig nails into your upper thigh, clamping down every time you try to buck your hips forward.  
Wasting practically no time at all, the man slides down your body. When he withdraws his finger, he replaces it instantly with his tongue, spearing into the slight leeway he's made inside you. The warm, soft, comforting touch is enough to make you groan, slowly coaxing your prick to attention. Yet far too soon the feeling is gone and he's pressing two dry fingers past your barely relaxed muscles. You choke on air and clench your teeth, wondering why, with all his prior talk of making you feel good, making you moan for his cock, he has to be so fucking _rough._

You like this. You really do. You like fingering yourself and the vibe he sent you was amazing and you've been waiting for someone to fuck you for so long. He saw how hot and hard and ready you were; he even gave you lube, for fuck's sake! So why was he making things hard for you now?  
He pulls his two fingers almost entirely out of your body, spread wide so they stretch you uncomfortably from the inside. He slips his thumb between them and the feel of all three digits thrusting back into you forces another raw sob out your throat. You hear that sneering, satisfied hum of approval and, as he pumps and spreads his fingers forcefully inside your burning hole, it occurs to you that oh, he might not actually be into making you feel good. He might actually just be into hurting you, and getting off on hurting you, and, if you're lucky, making you get off on being hurt.  
You feel like an idiot. Your insides are already raw and sore, matching the throat you are currently using to make slurred, half-whimpered noises as the man behind you stretches and pulls you open. Every time he accidentally jabs that spot inside you, you gasp, your dick tries to spring back up. Your nipples are hard and your body is taut, thrumming with tense energy, aroused in the strangest way by the pain in your lower half. You feel fucked up and stupid. 

A little too late, you reach back weakly to try and move his hand away, to push him off you. He deliberately takes it the wrong way, chuckling and practically purring, “Already want some more?”  
You moan, shake your head against your sheets, but he's already moved his hands to your hips and begun pushing you forward. You feel the dip of your bed as he climbs behind you, uses his legs to rearrange yours. His hips settle against your backside, the weight and heat of his stiff cock nestling between your cheeks. You try to squirm away, but he has your calves pinned, then his fingers digging into the back of your neck, then his knuckles spreading you a little as he guides the head of his dick to your hole.  
It happens so quickly, you yelp and clamp down when he tries to push into you. He grunts in frustration, knocks your hand away when your fingers scrabble against his arm. 

“Please...” you pant, too gone to care how you sound. “I've never done this before...please just...just...use...use something.”  
You get another chuckle in reply. “I think you'd like it raw,” he murmurs. “But I can't say 'no' when you ask so sweetly.” 

Fingers spread your cheeks and you hear the man spit, feel it splatter against your asshole. His thumb rubs at the sparing moisture before leaving. You hear the sound of spitting twice more, the schlick of him rubbing it on his dick, and you know it's not enough. His head is pressing against you where the saliva around your hole is _already_ drying, and how the fuck can he think it's enough? It's nowhere near enough and he pushes forward and you realise it's just the bare minimum he needs to force his way inside you. 

One hard stroke and he's got you to the hilt. Your eyes roll back and you think you black out for a second because he's suddenly pushing back into you. You can't even scream, air wheezing out of your shocked, wide mouth. A third stroke forces a raw shout out of your throat. Fire blazes up your spine and with each powerful thrust, you feel your body being stabbed open. He hunches over you, tell you you're doing great, it'll only hurt for a little bit, you feel so fucking good. He has one hand petting your hair and the other tugging your dick, making you like it. In a way, you're almost glad for the courtesy. It reminds you that this is what you wanted. You baited this situation and now you're getting what you asked for – hard, rough, fast. The hand on your dick makes you appreciate each spike of pain when he pounds into you, makes you crave more.  
Before you know it, you're moaning, pushing back into each painful thrust. The man has one hand braced against the wall over your head, the other still clutching your prick. He handles it callously, nails biting into it on every other off-stroke, but the pain layers over the ache of his cock violating you and sends shivers over your skin. The burn of being penetrated dry doesn't lessen, but it does become linked with each surge of arousal that his busy, tight fingers pull from you. 

You don't last long. The pain and your arousal and the shame of the two being intertwined comes too quickly to a head, sending you over the edge shuddering and gasping, hips spasming and muscles clenching around the cock buried in your ass. As you come undone, hands move to clutch your hips, steadying you just before you collapse. Face pressed into your mattress, you moan incoherently as you're fucked even harder. No longer concerned with getting you off, the man uses his grip to pull you into each jackhammer thrust. Every hard beat he rams into you sends a swirl of sensations through your body – pain, overstimulation, nausea, pleasure – until you're gasping out sobbing groans and your face feels hot and wet. It's only a few short minutes before he pins you back against his body, hips rolling a couple times as he empties deep inside you. 

For a brief, horrible moment you honestly think you're going to be sick. The completely foreign feeling of being filled sends shudders up your spine, nausea crawling up your throat. The feel of a spent cock sliding out of your body has the bizarre effect of both alleviating and aggravating the sensation, and you collapse onto your side with a groan. Curling your knees up as much as your _aching_ back will allow, you wrap your arms around your stomach and sniff, staunchly refusing to admit anything but sweat is dampening your face.  
Behind your back, at the side of your bed, you can hear the man fixing himself back up. It occurs to you to try and get a look at him, but even as you begin to turn he swoops down on you. He puts his arms around you, one hand covering your eyes, clothed body pressed against yours bare. For the first time you notice the feel of his slacks, the soft silk of his dress shirt. You wonder what he does for a living. He must be rich. He can afford to buy you fancy new clothes, groceries, toys. He stalks and rapes underage boys from the internet in his spare time.  
His other hand is on your cheek the instant your mouth twists and your chin crumples. He strokes and pats your face comfortingly, shushing you softly. “Hey, hey...it's okay,” he coos gently. “You're okay. You did great. You did really, really great. We had a great time together, didn't we?”  
You choke down a lump in your throat and nod, even as your mouth stays twisted down, even as your eyes burn under his palm. This is what you wanted. This is what you were asking for. This is why you lead him on, didn't tell anyone what was happening. You wanted someone to fuck you so badly and you got it and you shouldn't even be thinking of it as rape because you asked for it. Your breath stalls in your lungs and his lips are on yours, brushing against yours, telling you, “We'll have some more fun soon, okay?”  
The next nod comes automatically. He moves off of you and you clench your eyes shut. You are not crying. You refuse to be crying over the fact that your first kiss was taken by the same faceless stranger that just ripped you off your virginity. You're _definitely_ not crying because you just thought of John, and how any glimmer of a chance with him is shot cuz, seriously, how could a guy like him find attractive someone who let themselves be used like a whore and liked it? 

Fuzzily, you catch a glimpse of the man's silhouette as he leaves your room. You see light brown hair and solid shoulders. He's maybe as tall as Bro, but built wider. You wonder what he does for a living. He rapes little boys. You're done being conscious.  
It's easy to slip off. You're sore and exhausted, shaking and trying to remember how to breathe. Your eyes slide shut and you're out before you know it. 

_ _ _ 

Angry grumbling brings you back to consciousness, but the shout, “Dave, why the _fuck_ is the front door open again?!” is what really wakes you. You groan  
The temperature dropped at some point in the night and your window is still open. You're shivering without your blanket. Every inch of your body is sore, but the real pain is in your lower back. You seize a little, trying to uncurl your legs, but eventually give up. You can hear voices in the front room, then Bro's heavy footsteps coming down the hall.  
”Y'got thirty second t'be up n' explainin' your sorry ass, y'little shithead, cuz I am fuckin' done with-” 

You flinch when your light comes on. Bro stops dead mid-sentence. You shield your face, partially from the sudden bright light, partially because you don't want to see the look Bro's giving you. Truthfully, you don't want anything to do with Bro right now. You're starkly aware of the fact that he remains unmoving in your doorway. You're also painfully aware of your lack of clothes, of the fact that he's not moving, that you don't want him to see you naked right now.  
Footsteps cross your floor and you curl in on yourself a bit more. You just wish he would leave you the fuck alone, you can't handle an interrogation, you don't want to fucking talk right now. Heavy fabric slides over your skin and you jump, belatedly realising it's your blanket. You lift your head to look at Bro, but his face is turned away. He straightens, looking at the floor by your bed as he speaks. 

“Get some rest, little dude,” his voice is icy, seething with underlying rage that, for once, you get the sense isn't directed at you. He stalks out of your room, turning off your light and closing your door softly. As we walks down the hall, you hear him tell whoever's in the living room to go home. A muffled, protestant voice answers him and suddenly he's bellowing, _“I don't give two fuckin' shits get th'fuck outta here!”_  
There's some indignant shouting, the slam of the front door, then the sound of Bro rummaging around in the kitchen. You shut your eyes. You feel dizzy and nauseous, slipping into a restless sleep. 

You're not sure, but it's maybe an hour later when Bro comes back in your room. He doesn't turn on the light this time, so when you see the hunched, lumbering figure moving towards your bed, you let out a terrified gasp. It freezes, puts its hand up nonthreateningly.  
”Iss jussme, Iss jussme,” Bro's speech is slurred and careful. He staggers the rest of the way to your bedside and sort of stumbles into a sit on the floor next to it. In a bit of a daze, you gingerly roll over, hissing in pain as you shift your lower half. You hear a sympathetic whimper come from Bro and look down at him in shock. You're instantly smacked in the face by a wall of whiskey-stench. You don't think you've seen him this wrecked since you were really little, and that time you're pretty sure someone had died.  
As soon as you settle on your side facing him, his head jerks up from where he was resting his cheek on your bed. One of his big, paw-like hands covers your bony one, smoothing his thumb over the back of it. With the other he reaches out and wraps his arm around your shoulders, sort of halfway hauling himself onto your bed, half dragging you towards him. You gasp, letting him move you because he's never held you like this, never coddled you. He holds the back of your head and presses your face into his neck and when you turn your palm up to squeeze his hand, he squeezes back. His lips find your forehead and he breathes a sloppy, “M'sorry,” into your skin, clutching onto you when your shoulders hitch and your breath escapes you all in a rush. He clings to your hand and strokes your hair as you soak his shirt where you've buried your face in his shoulder. He doesn't even tease you, just whispers, “I know...M'sso sorry...I know,” into your hair as you cry raggedly because you've realised _no one_ has ever held you like this, and you think it might have been what you wanted all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I sleep and later add wrap-up notes, I think one thing should be addressed, and that is:  
> Let it not be said that one drunken act of kindness shall excuse a fanfiction's-worth of child abuse.  
> ...Don't want anyone to take that bit the wrong way.


End file.
